Rehearsing and Performing

Today I had the opportunity to perform at Devotional with the University Chorale. We reported to the Marriott Center at 10:15 (almost an entire hour early) and started warming up. Once everybody had arrived and climbed over each other, trying to find a seat in their section in this confusing new setting, our conductor motioned for us to stand. The rehearsal began.

It was painstaking. We'd been rehearsing the song (among others) since September, but never had we pounded it out quite as methodically as we did today. First we had to fix our vowels. Then we had to fix our intonation. Then pacing. Then dynamics. Then phrasing. Then lift. And finally, we were reminded to fix our faces. "The cameras will be right on you," our conductor said. "Be excited. Tell the story with your face."

It was a bit stressful. I was worried about our ability to focus on all of those things at once, and I was worried that my worry would keep me from having a story-telling face. I wanted more time to rehearse, but the organ was starting to play. Devotional had begun.

So we performed. And you know what? It went really well. I had fun singing the song, feeling the music as I connected with my fellow performers, conductor, and audience. The Spirit was there, and it filled in the gaps in our performance. Everything was okay. Actually, everything was pretty terrific!

It wasn't until later that I realized that this is what writing is often like for me.

Prewriting, outlining, drafting, revising, redrafting, and editing - these are the literary forms of rehearsal, and they can vary from fun and exciting to painstaking and miserable, depending on the day. The closer I get to the performance (actually turning something in), the more anxious and stressed I get about every flaw in the rehearsal. But once the performance comes - do or die - I find that my fears were mostly for naught. My hard work has paid off, and my progress shows.

This is also usually the time when I remember that writing (or singing) is something I choose to do. Because it's fun. And despite all of my doubts and anxieties, I am good at it.

I am really grateful for performance days.

Jr. High Hallways

Age changes things. Even though I knew it was coming, it is so strange to have it hit me so forcefully - and when I'm only 21! It just doesn't feel like it's been very long since I was in junior high; and yet when I stepped foot in one yesterday I found myself in a war zone unlike anything I can remember.

Teenagers are LOUD.

The halls ring with laughter and shouting and other (less flattering) noises. Tile floors and metal lockers  serve as excellent amplifiers, so the sound gets rebounded a hundred times before it dies down. I felt as though I were swimming in the waves of noise.

But really I was swimming in a throbbing mass of adolescence. Teenagers seem to have no qualms about touching each other - I was bumped, jostled, rammed, and nearly run over a dozen times before I made it down the hall to the classroom I would be observing for the day. In that time I witnessed a lot of intentional touching as well (and that part I remember) - hugging and slapping and picking each other up . . . the energy of the place was almost alarming.

I watched keenly, like a scientist on safari, trying to make sense of these strange beasts who looked so much like humans. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I could not - for the life of me! - figure out which teenagers were friends and which ones were enemies. They were all hitting each other, shoving each other, throwing each other into trash cans, and yet they were all smiling. It made no sense. No sense at all.

And then I remembered a time when I was in junior high - when my friends and I shoved someone in a locker just to see if he would fit, and then walked away, leaving him trapped, because it was so funny. And even the kid in the locker was laughing. Rattling the handle and laughing his head off.

Maybe it doesn't have to make sense. Maybe that's just the nature of junior high.

Well, that's all very well for the teenagers. But if I'm going to survive in this jungle as an adult - full of sensitivities and a strange yearning for order - then I think I'm going to need a pith helmet. Junior high is a dangerous place.

Grammar Rule Narrative

          *** What follows is a brief essay I wrote for my Teaching Grammar class. The point of the essay was to tell a story that involved a disagreement over the "rules" of the English language. I was to perform a good deal of research on the "rule" I chose, and it was my task to weave that research into my story in a meaningful way. To those who know the story, I would ask that you keep this in mind: I wrote this trying to preserve the impressions of my teenage-mind. My current self wouldn't agree with everything she has to say. *** 

           Anyone who has ever been a Mormon teenage girl can tell you about the Young Women program. Designed to function as both a religious class and an extracurricular club, each local Young Women group consists of twelve- to eighteen-year-old girls, and is run by a presidency made up of middle-aged Mormon women. My own experiences in Young Women were highly satisfactory . . . until the local president and I began to fight about my supposed lack of proper respect for authority figures. Once she decided that I was an impudent child, I decided that she was an idiot – a fact that was proven to me when she sent home a list of supplies that we would need for “Girls Camp” that year.

            Girls Camp? Wrong. It should have been “Girls’ Camp.” I took the list to my editing-inclined mother and asked, “How can I be expected to show respect to someone who can’t even use an apostrophe?”

            “But she doesn’t need to use an apostrophe there,” Mom responded. Blaspheme. I left silently: They were obviously in it together.

            What I didn’t know at fifteen was that the apostrophe has ever been an item of confusion for even the most dedicated scholars. Although apostrophes were used as early as the 16^th century to indicate omissions, there was no attempt to govern the other types of usage until the mid-19^th century (Cavella, and Kernodle). The basic rules upon which most modern scholars agree dictate that apostrophes can be used in three ways: possessives, contractions, and unusual plurals – such as “the aye’s have it” (Bullock, and Weinberg). I understood this. The phrase was “Girls’ Camp,” I thought, because it was our camp. It belonged to us.

            That precise assumption is what causes the confusion. Because according to writers Tim North and Richard Nordquist, the word “girls” in that phrase does not signify ownership; rather, it is a description – much like “a writers manual” or “a childrens book” (Nordquist). They would argue that the camp is not owned by girls, it is for girls; therefore, the use of a possessive apostrophe would be inappropriate, incorrect. And I would be wrong (North, Nordquist).

            Both I and my Young Women President were following the rules – we were just using different playbooks. Grammar, like every other aspect of language, reflects the power structure of the society in which it is made. My president’s insistence that the apostrophe was unnecessary was a continuation of her insistence that I – as a minor – had no place in the administration and control of our activities, while my own determination to scribble the apostrophe in anyway was a physical manifestation of exactly the impudence she had been accusing me of. I was going to take ownership of my life, whether the rules permitted it or not. Oddly enough, the apostrophe was my tool for rebellion.

            Incidentally, the LDS church’s stance on the issue is this: they refer to it as Young Women Camp. Without the apostrophe.

Teething Pains

The worst place in the world for a cameraman is a dentist's office.

Why? I wondered, standing awkwardly against the wall - my lips aching from their imprisonment in one of those spreader-devices - as the young dentist leaned closer and pushed the camera lens into my face. Why can't I ever have a dentist appointment that isn't completely awkward?

I have a long, blistering history with oral physicians. Dentists, orthodontists, oral surgeons, you name it. My experience with puberty was inexorably woven with these types of people; from the age of thirteen to adulthood, I had no idea what it was like to eat without wire fences in the way. (However, I was all too familiar with getting my sliding metal tubes stuck and being frozen with a roaring mouth.) After years of associating that ultra-sophisticated office with pain and disappointment, I concluded as a seventeen-year-old that "Orthodontists are soul-eaters."

Now that I am a few healthy strides into maturity, I have decided to forgive all the orthodontists, dentists, hygienists, surgeons, and nurses who have ever stabbed me in the mouth. In retrospect, I realize that they were all trying to help me, and that without them my teeth would still be rows of rubble. So I went to my dentist appointment yesterday with the intent to be cheery and helpful, to show my thanks for all that their kind has done for me.

And as a reward, I was attacked by the paparazzi, scrutinized and critiqued and "Don't you think you should Whiten those?"-ed until I thought even my teeth would begin blushing in embarrassment.

Some things never change.

Bathroom Blunder

Two of our missionaries never showed up. That's how it started.

I had planned the day's service assignments thinking that we'd be getting 12 missionaries total: two companionships for each of the three shifts. But when the second shift was halfway over and I still hadn't received my fourth pair, I realized there'd be trouble. Especially because - as if they knew what was coming - the missing missionaries were the ones I'd planned to have clean our bathrooms. Now I'd have to push the assignment onto one of the pairs coming later.

But I had only four more missionaries coming, and they were all brand new to service. That was the next problem: new missionaries have to go through an orientation meeting that takes about 20 minutes, cutting into their service time. And since bathrooms are the most complicated and the most important thing we have to clean, I'd need to spend at least another 5 minutes training the missionaries on that specific job. It usually takes two Elders the full 75 minutes of service to finish cleaning all six bathrooms in the building; how could I expect a pair of Greenies to finish in 50 minutes?

I made a decision that seemed sensible. I would simply put all four of the new missionaries on the job. That's not how we usually divide it up, but I thought I could make it work. And with twice the number of missionaries on the job, they should be able to finish in plenty of time.

I talked it over with my partner, Jackalope. Together, we figured out the system that we thought would be most efficient - the first companionship would do the basic cleaning, and then the second companionship would follow close behind with a rinse, mop, and dry. No problem.

Yes problem.

The first companionship was very good, quickly understanding their jobs and performing them with admirable speed. The second companionship was more worried about doing things right, and this slowed them down. So when the first companionship moved on to the next bathroom - taking the CLOSED FOR CLEANING sign with them - the second companionship wasn't ready to start yet. And since this was the first time I've tried to have the bathrooms cleaned this way, I didn't foresee the terrible consequences.

You see, when the first companionship moved on, they left the sinks and toilet soaking in industrial strength chemical. Jackalope and I had considered this a plus - with more time to sit, the chemical would have a stronger effect. What we had not considered was that without a custodial sign outside the door, the building's patrons had no way of knowing that the bathroom was in the midst of being cleaned. They didn't know what they were walking into - or rather, what they were sitting into.

And so it came to pass that I walked into the men's bathroom with our second pair of missionaries - planning to instruct them on the proper methods of rinse-mop-drying - and happened upon my friend Jorge, a regular volunteer, occupying one of the stalls. There was the initial moment of rueful embarrassment . . . . then came a dreadful realization.

Jorge just got Sparquat all over his keister!

I froze in the hallway, eyes slamming open. My hand slapped into position on my horrorstruck mouth. I poisoned him! The chemical will just soak into his flesh and dry up his innards. My imagination rattled its cage as I raced to think through the situation. He's probably caught fire by now and we'll be hearing his tortured scream any second. Oh why did I tell them to take the sign with them? I'm a biochemical felon!

I ran to Jackalope and confessed. Her physical reaction was an echo of my own. She looked terrified. "What are we going to do?" I asked. "Should we tell him?"

"No! How would we tell him?!" Jackalope fretted. She went into prevention mode, making CLOSED signs out of paper and taping them to the bathroom doors, belatedly. I watched, needles running through my veins, and waited for some kind of alarm to go off. Jackalope soon joined me, standing tensely by the wall. We waited for consequence to arrive.

Instead, Jorge walked out of the bathroom. He ambled down the hall, smiling and waving at us as he walked past. We smiled back. (Our teeth might have crushed walnuts.) I subtly checked for burn marks on his pants.

Then he was gone.

"Er, Jessica?" The Elders I had abandoned were peaking around the corner, looking for instruction. Immediately I was back at work, rushing to finish the job before the missionaries had to leave. But for the rest of the shift, I couldn't help feeling incomplete and unfinished.

My consequence had walked away. But that didn't make it any less real. It only meant that I couldn't see it, and its horrors slowly faded into the fearsome unknown.

If you think we control our choices, think again.
Choices have feet.
When you aren't looking, they'll run away from you.
Good luck getting them back.

Injured Missionaries

I have heard it said that the fact that the LDS church can send thousands of 19-year-old boys out into the furthermost reaches of the world for two years and have almost all of them return home safely should be proof enough that we've got God on our side. It is simply miraculous that they survive, let alone that they are able to change the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. What I don't think most people consider, however, is how miraculous it is that missionaries survive the MTC experience itself.

No, this is not going to be a post about MTC food.

In my job as a Building Care employee, I have four to sixteen missionaries report to me every morning for their service assignments. And during my six months at the MTC I have been surprised at how many of those missionaries show up with some type of injury. Before I walked through those high-security gates, I had considered the MTC to be a mild place, strictly governed and well-organized. And so it is. But what I failed to realize was that when a young man - barely out of his teenage frolics - is dragged into a world where even fun has to be scheduled in, there mounts inside him an enormous pressure; all of his yearnings for freedom and chaos build up on each other and focus themselves into one thing: physical exertion.

I have never witnessed a gym hour at the MTC. I am a little afraid to do so. I have heard enough stories and seen enough battle scars to get an idea for how intensely these missionaries play. (After all, it is the only "play" they get.) One thing I do admire is that even when they are bruised and battered, the missionaries still come to do their service. Here are some of the wounds I have witnessed.

Broken nose
Abrasions on arms
Bloodied face
Broken arm
Broken leg
Torn ligaments
and, as of today, Concussion.

"How'd you get a concussion?" I asked Elder Taylor (fake name), not sure if I should be laughing or commiserating.

He shrugs and gives the stereotypical answer, "Basketball." When I nod knowingly, he continues, "I bashed my head into another player. He was okay, but I . . . well, I don't really like doctors, so I just went back to my dorm room at first. But then my headache just wouldn't go away, and my vision started to go all funky, and I thought I was going to throw up, so -"

"So you finally went to a doctor?" I asked, his unconcerned behavior reminding me of my little brother, and awakening a motherly alarm in me that I didn't realize I had.

"Well, we couldn't because it was Labor Day, and everything was closed. So they had to take me to the Emergency Room."

"What?!"

"Yeah, but I'm okay now," Elder Taylor said, grinning.

I just looked at him for a minute, scrutinizing his innocent smile. I smiled back. "That's the part you should tell your mother," I said, "that you're getting better. You maybe shouldn't tell her the other stuff."

"Right," he said, as if it were obvious. Hiding the scary details from your mother is the only kind of secret combination allowed at the MTC. In fact, I'm beginning to think that's the reason they don't allow families into the MTC anymore. Perhaps those high-security gates are meant to protect - not so much the safety of the missionaries - but the sanity of their mothers.

The Desk Disaster of 2012

"Did we do something wrong?"

The missionaries had gathered around us, looking crestfallen and betrayed. My coworkers and I cringed guiltily, caught in the middle of removing the desks from their classroom. We'd spent a large portion of the morning gutting the desks, piling all of the scriptures, highlighters, manuals, and notebooks as neatly as we could on the floor. We had hoped to be finished taking the desks out before the missionaries got back from their service assignments, but it hadn't worked out that way. We were trapped.

And despite the fact that we'd spent the morning complaining about how messy these elders were, how they never listened when we asked them to stop racing chairs down the hall, and how these giant metal desks had been a nuisance ever since they'd arrived - we just felt bad when we saw how upset they were to lose their desks. Wrenched from nearly all their mortal possessions, these desks must have been the closest thing any of these missionaries had to private property. Many of them had personalized their desks with stickers and notes. And they had shown up to class to find us heartlessly dragging them away.

"What are you doing with our desks?" one Elder asked. I could have sworn his puppy dog eyes were about to start swimming with tears. "Why are you taking them away?"

I didn't know what to say. "Our boss is having all these new desks cleared out."

"But why?"

"They were never supposed to be here." It was true; the new desks had shown up randomly, and we'd been trying to figure out what to do with them for weeks. "Apparently they're supposed to go to 4M."

"But that's the building where the English-speaking missionaries study!" An Elder pushed forward through the crowd, looking furious. "They're only here for three weeks, and we're here for nine! Why should they get the nice desks?"

The wall was lined with old, tiny desks we were using to replace the new ones we'd taken out. In truth, it was quite a step down from what they were used to. "I'm sorry, Elder. It doesn't make sense to me either -"

"Now I'm going to have to stand for three hours!" another angry Elder burst out, glaring at me accusingly. "I can't sit in those old desks for more than two minutes without having to change how I'm sitting; they're so uncomfortable. It'll be too distracting, and I won't be able to learn anything. I'll have to just stand for the whole three hours of class!"

That seemed a bit extreme. "Now, listen, I'm not in charge of this. I'm just -"

"Did you peel everything off of the tops?" a Sister interrupted, looking anxious.

"What? You mean the stickers and stuff?" I asked, bemused. "No, we didn't peel any of that off. We didn't want to take the time; the custodians in 4M can take care of it." I was the one who had insisted upon this to my coworkers. After all, where were the 4M custodians now? Why weren't they helping us move all these things?

"So they're still on the desks?" the Sister asked. When I nodded, she started lifting the desks off of each other, clearly looking for her own. "I just put a lot of stuff on mine, and I'd really like to get it back. Do you see -?"

"I had a bunch of stuff on mine, too," an Elder insisted, coming toward me. There were four or five other missionaries on his heels.

"Okay, okay!" I shouted over the clamor. In my best announcer-voice, I called across the crowd, "If there was stuff taped to the top of your desk, it's still there. Help each other flip over the desks and you should be able to find yours. We've got a couple of putty knives you can use." I motioned for one of my coworkers to run and grab the putty knives from downstairs, then I started flipping over desks to help the frantic missionaries.

I was there for a long time. Missionary after missionary came to me with questions, but my answers never got any better. All of the Elders and Sisters were sad; some of them were even resignedly grateful to us for letting them take their stickers off the desks. But there were a few missionaries who were really mad at us for pulling such a dirty trick on them while they weren't even in the building to defend themselves. I wanted to fight back - to argue that it wasn't our fault, and what made them think they owned these desks anyway?! - but I knew it wouldn't do any good. They didn't really mean any harm; we were all just caught up in the great machine that is the MTC, being banged around by a few miscommunications. It's not the first time, and I'm sure it won't be the last.

When I was telling my boss about it - I'd had to go to her office for a bandage, after cutting open my arm on one of those oh-so-precious desks - she had quite a lot to say about these missionaries and their "generation of Entitlement." She rolled her eyes and fumed, "I mean, when they get to the Philippines they're going to be sitting on dirt floors. They won't have desks at all! Where is their gratitude?"

I just let her talk. I saw both sides too well to fight for one. It was really irritating, of course, to deal with this kind of attitude problem in the midst of a huge organizational problem. But all the same, I had a feeling that the fact that they're going to be sitting on dirt floors for the next two years only made it seem more important to the Elders that they get to sit in nice desks now.

It's just change. At the MTC, where these kids are being thrown into an entirely alien environment and are expected to teach there, any loss of the little stability they have is a tragedy. Even if it's only a bunch of desks.

MTC Rivalry

I am at war with one of my coworkers at the MTC.

(*insert dramatic sound effect*)

It started out quite innocently. I don't think either of us ever thought it would escalate this far. After all, Jane and I rarely even see each other; we work in separate buildings. But perhaps that separation is part of what has allowed the tension to build to this point where . . . well, let me start from the beginning.

First, you must understand that the area I work in covers four small buildings (for the sake of this story, let's call them Buildings 1-4). There are eight of us student workers; we all report to Building 1 first thing in the morning to get our keys and radios - as well as to receive any special instructions our boss might have for us - then we disperse, two students to each of the four buildings. I work in Building 3; Jane works in Building 2. So, like I said, we interact surprisingly little. Or at least we did. Until one day when I unintentionally changed the nature of our relationship forever.

It was like any other day. I was leaving my building, heading back to Building 1 to return my keys and clock out. I noticed Jane walking about twenty feet ahead of me, also on her way to Building 1. And for reasons I'll never be able to explain, I decided to see if I could run and catch up to her before she made it to the door - without her hearing me. With catlike tread, I sprinted towards the unsuspecting brunette and - upon reaching her - put my finger to her head and made a gunshot noise in her ear.

"Pskorwh!" (That is the closest approximation the English language can produce to replicate the noise that came out of my mouth that day. Take it for what it's worth.)

It was the shot heard 'round the MTC. Jane nearly leapt out of her tennis shoes, a shiver running down her entire body as she turned to see who had attacked her. Pleased with the reaction, I was bent over with laughter, unable to answer her outraged expression. She glared and smiled with the same look as she promised, "I will get you back, Jessica." I shook my head, eyes streaming at this point, and just smiled. I thought it was nothing; a harmless prank.

Well, that harmless prank turned into a bitter rivalry. We've been going at it for weeks, startling any bystanders who have been unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfires. The aim is constant: sneak up on your opponent and terrify her when she's least expecting it. But our strategies have been diverse - and sometimes have involved other coworkers, to add to the humiliation of the moment.

I don't think my boss - sweet, old lady that she is - has any idea what is going on. Jane and I have been shooting sly smiles and smirks at each other during meetings for weeks, but apparently she hasn't noticed. Last time we got a new employee, Jane introduced me to him as "a horrible person," to which my boss laughed openly, thinking Jane was being ironic. Everyone else knows - I'll bet even some of the missionaries who come to do service for us know about it - but there seems to be an unspoken consensus among us to keep our boss out of it. (Because, violent and unsettling though it may be, neither of us wants to give up the game.)

Today, things got a bit extreme. I've been ahead in points ever since this thing started (the score currently stands at 7 - 2), but I just can't stand up the perfect opportunity. Which is what happened today, when I left my boss's office and saw Jane heading up the stairs. She was holding a broken-down cardboard box, probably headed out to the recycling bins. I see that box as being very important now, but in the moment what I noticed was that her position - halfway up the stairs - put her legs at my shoulder-level.

I dove forward, reaching out with a claw-like hand, and snatched Jane by the ankle.

It was the scream from every horror movie you've ever seen. And it echoed all up and down the staircase, probably alarming countless studious missionaries. (In retrospect, I do regret interrupting their classes like this. But as MTC missionaries are starving for distraction, I'll bet they don't complain.)

Jane flipped around, and through the rosy haze of my triumph I noticed that she looked more freaked out than I'd ever seen her. "YOU!" she accused, shaking with adrenalin. Again, I was laughing too hard to respond, but I smiled in an affirmative way. Oh man, I thought, that was the best one yet! I wasn't really paying attention, still congratulating myself as she raised her cardboard box . . .

. . . and started beating me with it.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

"You! Are! So! Awful!" she was yelling between blows. Meanwhile, she was whacking me with a rather sizable box of cardboard; hitting me on the back, the arms, and the head. Each swing connected sharply, and soon my thoughts turned from self-congratulation to self-preservation. I put up my hands to deflect the weapon - which was shockingly effective.

"Ow! Jane, geez!"

We were standing by the entrance doors, and there was one poor missionary standing there. He had been holding the door open for Jane, but now he was frozen to the spot watching us - one huddled half in laughter, half in panic; the other yelling maniacally as she bashed into me with her cardboard mace. After a few moments of horror, he let go of the door and walked - slowly, cautiously - away.

I did escape eventually, but not before Jane had proved to me exactly how much damage a cardboard box can do to the human body. When I made it back to the safety of my own building, I collapsed in the custodial closet, gasping for breath (and, oddly, still laughing). My partner - who has given herself the codename Jackalope - was in there putting chemicals away, and when she saw me she looked bewildered. I explained what had just happened, and concluded with the lesson of the day:

It is safer to surprise people who are unarmed.

Abinadi's Story in Sonnet Form

For the take-home portion of  my midterm exam, I had to compose a sonnet based on a Book of Mormon story. I was supposed to stay close to the text, following the standard rhyme scheme for a Shakespearean sonnet (ABAB CDCD EFEF GG). Iambic pentameter was not required (it was considered too hard to grade), but as a Shakespearean scholar I practically think in iambic pentameter all the time now, so I threw that in my sonnet, too.

Anyways, that's the gist of it. I wrote a sonnet about Abinadi (because he's my very favorite Book of Mormon prophet). The sonnet itself is a bit contrived, but I was in a bit of a rush. Plus, after pouring over Shakespeare for so many hours the one thing I have determined is that he was absolutely brilliant - I can't really compete. But take it for what it's worth: a new perspective on a favorite LDS tale.

Sonnet #17

Three days in prison could not make him fear.

Accuséd, by the priests, of blasphemy,

They charg’d him say that Christ would ne’er appear;

Without this vow, he’d have no amnesty.

Abinadi would not recall his words,

“For they are true; I die that ye may know.”

The king, whose anger by the priests was stirred,

Swore he would see this prophet burn. And so,

Amidst the scorching strokes, swallowed in pain,

The prophet cried out from his martyr’s pole,

“This blood is innocent that you have slain.

Fear recompense. O God, receive my soul.”

Engulfed in flames, he drew his final breath

And sealed his testimony with his death.

By Jessica Grosland

The Cookie Was Right

There is a special place in my superstitious heart for fortune cookies. An unopened fortune cookie in the hand is like a grenade, and always begs the question, Is it a dud? Or will this one explode? Whether the explosion is delightful or debilitating, I always hope that the cookie isn't a dud. I like a bit of supernatural excitement in my life.

Understanding the strange power of fortune cookies, I am careful to open them. So when I came upon a fortune cookie in early April, I was too frightened to open it at first. It was almost finals week, and if the cookie said anything about struggles or failures I knew it would affect my testing experience. So I waited. I waited until grades were final, until the tests were over, so it would be safe. The day before Spring Term started, I decided to open the fortune cookie. Beginnings are so hopeful, I was optimistic that the fortune would set me off right for the new term. (Also, I'd been staring at that packet of deliciousness on my desk for way too long - it was time to eat the thing already!)

I opened the package. Delicately, tentatively, I cracked open the cookie. I grabbed my fortune. What does this new term hold for me? I asked silently, almost praying. I took a deep breath, opened the little slip of paper, and I read:

"A fascinating project is in your future."

And immediately, I let out a horrified shriek. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

(True story.)

Because, really, the last thing I wanted to hear was that my Spring Term was going to involve a "fascinating project." And that blasted cookie didn't lie: each and every one of my classes this term is centered around projects. Lots and lots of projects. (That, my friends, is why I've been so busy that I haven't even thought about my blog in weeks.)

Living Prophets

For instance, I am taking a class on the living prophets of the LDS church (the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles). My professor is an old Tahitian man who has met every single member of the upper fifteen, and is going to begin his calling as president of the Tahiti temple in August. He's very funny in a ridiculously happy sort of way - he once made everyone in class turn to their neighbor, shake their hand, and tell them we loved them. (I was sitting by a guy, so it was particularly awkward saying, "I love you," to each other.) My professor has structured his class in such a way that we teach most of the lessons; we are all in groups assigned to present a 40 minute presentation on one of the prophets, seers, and revelators. I was made group leader, so my project for this class involved coordinating with everyone, giving out assignments, and researching all the conference talks given by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf. Fortunately, we gave our presentation a couple of weeks ago, so I don't have to worry about this class anymore.

History of Creativity

This is one of the last General Ed classes I have to take, and there's a reason I've been postponing it. It's a world history class, and I struggle with history. However, this class has a particular slant; it focuses on the creativity of ancient peoples - the creation of new inventions, societies, philosophies, religions, strategies, etc. It's alright, I suppose. But the project for this class is HUGE, and it hangs over my head menacingly all the while. It's not due until the end of the term, and it's worth around 30% of my final grade. (So, you know, no big deal.) It's a "personal creativity project," and I think I'll go into details at a later date because it's a rather long story. Needless to say, it's a beast.

Instructional Technology in Teaching

This class has absolutely nothing but projects. I'm learning all the different technologies that I may need in a classroom someday, and so each time I learn a new program I have to demonstrate my mastery of it by completing a project. Each of these projects gets uploaded to my portfolio - a fake class website that I can show potential employers to demonstrate my awesomeness. (The website is, I suppose, the biggest project, as it's a compilation of all my other projects.) It takes a lot of time, but I'm really grateful that I was required to take this class: it's opened up my eyes to the possibilities of technology in the classroom - even an English classroom.

Classroom Management

I enjoy this class. We only meet for two hours, once a week, and we have a fun time talking about how on earth we plan to control 30+ teenagers at a time, as we will all be doing in the near future. We have all sorts of education majors in there, and I have fun talking to Physics, Drama, and History teachers-to-be. The big project for this class is to create our own Classroom Management Plan booklet (another resource for squeezing our way into a job). It will have at least four chapters, and include graphics, properly cited quotes, and our own interpretations. The final product will be around fifteen pages long, but I've only written the first chapter so far. (Mine's gorgeous, though. I accidentally did an excellent job and I'm rather pleased with myself.)

So that's school. I'm also keeping busy outside of campus - I'm still managing missionaries at the MTC; I'm attending bridal showers and wedding receptions left and right; I'm serving as a Home Evening Group Leader and Ward Music Director in my newly reorganized singles ward; and I still haven't finished The Death Cure (my waiting-to-be-read booklist is soooo long...). Oh, and I have some dental surgery coming up, so there's that to look forward to as well.

But you know what? Life is good. My best friend gets home from his mission in July, my cousin is having a baby any day now, and the new Spider-Man movie comes out in just a couple of months. So evil fortune cookie aside, things are going pretty great for me.

Thanks for your well-wishes.

My MTC Morning

"What's wrong with it now?"

I looked at the missionary sympathetically, but rules are rules. "Elder, there's paper all over the floor, your top shelf hasn't been dusted, and the window's all smudged. If more than two items on the sheet are 'Needs Work,' we have to rate the room 'Unacceptable.' I'm just trying to do my job."

There were eight missionaries in the room, and by this point half of them were out of their chairs, ganging up on me. You wouldn't think that a bunch of 19 year-olds in suits and ties could be quite so intimidating. The leader took another step towards me. "But this is our first inspection. We didn't know! We've only been here a week."

"It's a good thing you'll be here for another few weeks," I said, smiling and trying not to cower in the circle of very tall penguins elders. "This inspection awakened you to a sense of your awful guilt, and now you have the chance to repent."

"But Sister -"

"Jessica, are you okay?"

The elders backed off, turning to see my partner Matt standing in the hall, eyebrow raised. I took advantage of the distraction and hurried out of the room. "Sorry, Elders," I called. "Better luck next week." The sounds of their frustration followed me out down the hall. Matt looked back at the room for a moment, then shrugged. He went back to the custodial closet, and I continued critiquing the classrooms.

Walking down the hallways, I let the typical missionary chatter bounce around in my ears. Blah blah Prayer blah blah the Spirit blah blah Laundry . . . . My attention was caught by a group of elders who had cornered their District Leader, who looked extremely embarrassed. "No, really," one of them was saying, "You're incredible. Sometimes I feel the Spirit just by walking past you!"

"The Prophet just needs to clone you," another added. "Then you can preach the gospel everywhere!"

"Guys, please stop," the District Leader said, looking at me nervously. "This is so weird . . . ."

When I got downstairs, I looked for Matt to tell him the story. He was refilling chemicals, so I leaned against the wall across from him. But before I could open my mouth, an elder came sprinting around the corner and pushed past me, yelling "Get him away from me!"

Companionship issues, I thought. I looked back to where the elder had come from, and sure enough his companion was looking for him. "Where'd he go?" his voice called. I started forward, thinking to help, just as the companion came around the corner. He was holding a nearly invisible thread, from the end of which was hanging . . .

My spidey-senses exploded in my brain. I immediately leaped behind the first Samoan elder I could find, peeking out from behind his shoulder (well, elbow) to look at the evil, spider-wielding companion. "Get that out of here!" I demanded, laughing nervously.

The elder saw my terror and grinned, taking another step forward. Fortunately, I have been blessed with a soul-scorching glare, and he soon realized that I didn't think his little prank was funny. He took the spider back to the other elders in his district and they stomped it to death together. Rolling my eyes, I let go of the Samoan missionary and escaped to the third floor.

On the third floor I found three elders sitting outside the bathroom. Amused, I asked, "You all waiting for your companions?"

They nodded, looking exasperated. Most of the time the elders do a good job of obeying the "Sight or Sound" rule of keeping close to their companions. But for some reason, the elders seem to really hate having to wait for them when they go to the bathroom. (The sisters don't mind at all. They're used to going to the bathroom in groups.) I needed to get into the bathroom to restock the toilet paper anyway, so I parked myself beside these elders. "Where are you headed on the mission?" I asked.

"Arizona," one of them answered. "We get to leave in six days." His fellows nodded, looking as if they couldn't wait to get out of this place.

I grinned, but before I could ask anything more another of the elders in their district came running over to talk to me. (Elders love talking to me. I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm a female who wears pants.) The missionary spoke in hushed tones, but his eyes were excited. "Did you know," he asked, "that Elder Archuleta is here?!"

I stared at him blankly. "Who?"

"Elder Archuleta!" He rolled his eyes. "You know, David Archuleta?"

"Oh yeah!" It was weird at first to hear him called 'Elder.' "He's here? Here where? In the building?"

The missionary shook his head, "He's here in the MTC. We saw him!" His companions nodded, looking excited too. The missionary continued with wide eyes, still speaking confidentially, "I saw him in the cafeteria this morning. He was drinking orange juice."

"Really?" I asked. He'd given me a significant look and I didn't really understand it.

"Yes!" The elder shook his head as if he couldn't believe it. "He's going to feel awful later. That MTC orange juice does bad things to your insides."

"Ah." I blinked, and involuntarily we all glanced toward the bathroom door across from us. On the wings of that awkward silence I left the elders to their contemplations.

And I thought, for about the seventy-five millionth time since coming to the MTC, "Oh, Elders . . . "

Working at the MTC

Having grown up in Mormonville, the Missionary Training Center has always been in the background of my life's setting. For years it stood there, half-hidden in the shadows of mystery. It was, in my mind, a sort of secret-agent training school for the LDS church. I mean, really: stupid, badly dressed, self-obsessed teenager Jimmy goes in; awe-inspiring, ridiculously attractive, skilled-in-all-things Elder Richardson comes out. How does this transformation occur?

You know that feeling you have when you look at side-by-side pictures of a caterpillar and a butterfly? That feeling that says, "HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN?!"

Well, once I got this job working at the MTC, I had the chance to rip that chrysalis open and stare metamorphosis in the face!

And you know what I learned?

The metamorphosis doesn't happen in the MTC. It happens in the field. The MTC is more like the stage during which the caterpillar just eats and eats and eats - getting really fat so that it doesn't starve during the real metamorphosis.

...actually, the MTC is almost exactly like that!

Anyway, here are some snippets of my experience in the MTC. First things first: brand-new missionaries like to wax philosophical . . . with varying degrees of success.  I often find the product of their mental-labors scribbled on their classroom chalkboards:

. . . yeah, I don't know what it means either.

I have also found some even more disheartening phrases (some graffitied on bathroom stalls, others on discarded tissues) such as  "None of my wishes are ever granted," and "When all else fails, kick the dog." This was when I figured out that even though they've only been away from home a little while, brand-new missionaries are sometimes very sad to be here.

However, a lot of them really like being missionaries - or, at least, they really love goofing around with each other in a missionary-appropriate sort of way.

 One of the most common things missionaries like to do when they need to let go of some excess energy is sing. Really loudly. In fact, sometimes two districts in the same hallway will get up a little singing contest between them to see which class can sing "Praise to the Man" the loudest.

By the way, being a missionary doesn't mean you are automatically blessed with perfect pitch. Unfortunately.

There are a billion other things I could tell you about working at the MTC, but the weather is too good for me to stay at the computer much longer. So I'll just close with this last picture, as a symbolic way of saying that even though the missionaries at the MTC are a little crazy, they are working on something beautiful: spreading the gospel of Jesus Christ. And their individual transformations are only just getting started.

 

P.S. Landscaping is fantastic! It's like they dropped Spring off at my front door!

Geez, Louise!

So, remember how last year I had a prediction that twelve of my friends would get engaged before the end of the year? I had a little widget on the side of my blog to keep track, and by December - sure enough! - I had thirteen friends on that list. I considered myself a successful prophetess, took the widget off my blog, and moved on with my life.

But today, I'm thinking I should have kept the widget. I just got another text from a friend saying, "Guess what? I'm engaged!" and I'm starting to feel like I'm living in the movie The Single's Ward.

In the last four months, I have celebrated the engagements of:

Leslie Whipple (now Riddle)
Jaynann Matthews
Damon Hadfield
Kim Lifferth
Abby Taylor
Amanda Gay
and Aubrey Devereaux.

And it hasn't been too spread out. It tends to happen in clusters, with two or three people getting engaged in the same week. Frankly, I'm a little exhausted from all the excitement.

Congratulations to one and all of you happy lovebirds. But if you don't mind, could you slow it down a bit? My hands are sore from constant applauding.

Surprise! I'm still here!

So it turns out that the more of a life you have, the less time you spend on the internet. Weird, huh?

Not that having a life is a very good excuse for not blogging. I posted far more frequently when I was living and teaching in RUSSIA than I have been as of late, and my life here is definitely not that exciting. I think most of the reason I haven't been blogging is that I've been letting myself get caught up in the sprinting lifestyle - I just run from place to place to place, all the while trying not to think too hard about what I'm doing.

Just so you know, that's NOT a good life strategy.

So let me get you caught up on my life as of right now. The first thing you should know is that I am in the MTC.

That's right - I have a job now! I am doing custodial work at the Missionary Training Center in Provo. I really love working custodial, odd as that may sound. (It's just so gratifying, so instantly!) However, a huge part of my job lies not in doing the actually cleaning, but in managing the missionaries as they do the cleaning.

Missionaries at the MTC are required to do service every week, as part of their training. Some of them are assigned to clean the buildings with the custodial staff, so every morning (I work from 6:00am to 10:00am) we get around four or five companionships of missionaries who report to us for service. We assign them to their tasks, teach them how to do it, and supervise their efforts. Depending on how many missionaries we get that day, we may or may not do any actual cleaning ourselves.

Sweet job, eh?

I'm still going to classes, however, and that part of my life has not been sweet this past few weeks. Since coming back from Russia I have been struggling with my approach to my schoolwork. Before, it was the most important thing I was doing. After spending a semester away, though, it's really easy for me to look at school and think, "You know what? There is a lot more to life than just school." So now when I still have homework by bedtime, I don't stay up until three in the morning to finish it (usually). I just go to bed, knowing that the work will still be there in the morning.

I'm not sure how I feel about this shift in perspective. It's causing me problems, for sure. I have fallen behind in homework more than is acceptable - sometimes I think there is no way I'll be able to catch up. But there's also a certain freedom that has come with it. I feel like I'm not chained to my desk anymore - like, I shouldn't fail all of my classes, but if I do, I know I can still have family and a future and faith. School isn't the center of the universe; God is. If I can focus on Him, then everything will turn out all right.

So even though I'm pretty stressed out about how on earth I'm going to get all of my homework done, I think maybe there's something healthy about me letting school fall by the wayside just a bit. I have been a prisoner to my report card for too long. This may be an over-correction, but hopefully next semester I'll be able to work it out to where I can dedicate to school the time and effort it deserves - and no more.

Well, that's my life right now. Maybe soon I'll get back into the habit of blogging, so that I can tell you more interesting, individual stories; but for now, I hope this brief overview of things is satisfactory.

Good day/night/bye!

- Jessica Grosland

High Maintenance - Low Yield

You know those days when you have the flu, you're swamped with homework, and your basement floods with toilet water?

Yeah, January got me very well acquainted with those days.

After our basement flooded (the first time) we were unable to use any of the water in our house: no showers, no drinking, and absolutely no flushing. We spent a miserable weekend running to neighbors' and relatives' houses, begging to use their toilets. Many plumbers came to our house and tried to fix the problem, but the basement flooded three times in a single weekend before we finally found the clog. (My brother apparently flushed a ball-point pen a few weeks back.)

Thus, I arrived home one day to find my entire yard upended.

So much for having grass next year.

 It was a rather apt metaphor for the entire month of January for me.

But let us not linger on the misery. There were many good things that happened during January. For instance, my English Education field experience.  I spent every morning for three weeks at Maple Mountain High School, acting sort of like a new apprentice. I observed classrooms, made copies of assignments, created decorations, designed lesson plans, and even got to teach on a few occasions. It was a lot of fun, honestly.

Maple Mountain doesn't like my old high school very much. This is a poster from their school, in which they seem to think a Golden Eagle could eat a Red Devil. It was very difficult for me to keep my mouth shut when things like this happened.

The only downside was that after a morning of feeling like a professional teacher, I had to go back to BYU and play the student again. It was jarring and uncomfortable, especially because I kept falling behind in my other classes because I was so preoccupied with teaching high school. I am normally a very good student, so realizing that I've slipped into being a terrible student has been a bit of an identity crisis for me.

It's odd, really. I've been depriving myself of sleep, starving myself, and driving myself nearly to a psychotic breakdown trying to get all of my homework done. Yet I still feel like I have made no progress. This is the part of college that I hate.

I found this magical box in the Joseph Smith Building. Perhaps there is hope yet.

And so, I bid January farewell with a swift kick. If it had a grave, I would spit on it.

February, let's try to be friends, alright?

The Right Heart

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I was eighteen years old. Only months away from graduating from high school, I was still considered part of the "youth" of the church. (Though, naturally, I considered myself far too experienced for such a title.) It was under this label that I was called upon to speak in our Stake Conference meeting, much to my shock and intimidation. Whatever I thought of my maturity, I did not think it was sufficient that I was qualified to preach to a crowd of several hundred people.

Regardless, I accepted the call. I spoke. And it went pretty well, as far as I remember. Well enough that my mother requested a copy of my talk. "I'll get right on that," I told her, as I frequently do.

And I forgot, as I frequently do. Fortunately for my mother, my writings are so close to my heart that I scarcely throw anything away - I found the talk in one of my old notebooks today. I figured it was time to live up to my word.

"What is the purpose of coming to church? Is it to make new friends; to create solidarity as a community; to practice our singing; to get a few hours’ nap; to let someone else take care of the kids for a while?

No. The purpose of coming to church is to worship; to praise God and renew our covenants with Him; to learn His ways and hear His word and recommit to live our lives in such a way that we can return to live with Him again.

This – the true purpose, the real reason we are all here – cannot be fulfilled without the Holy Ghost. We’re all human, subject to human frailties. Even the best of us cannot learn one iota of eternal truth without the power of the Spirit. That is why it is so vital that we invite the Spirit into our meetings.

And how do we invite the Spirit into our meetings? Other talks will discuss the logistics: be early; pray for the Spirit’s influence; listen to the prelude music; take notes; etc. But I don’t have time for that. I only have five minutes. So I’m just going to talk about one thing – something that is so obvious, but sadly sometimes gets overlooked.

My seminary teacher, Brother Laing, had a little chant that we used to recite every few days. It went like this: “If I am in the right place, at the right time, doing the right things, with the right heart then I will receive Christ.” For our purposes, the “right place” is church. (Congratulations. You all pass.) The “right time” is Sunday. The “right things,” those would be those logistics I mentioned. But what about “the right heart”? Having the right heart is the hardest part of the list, but it may also be the most important.

There are two things to consider about the heart. The first is that your heart is the origin of your motivations. In order to receive the Spirit’s guiding influence, you not only have to come to church, but you have to come for the right reason. Are you just here because it’s routine? Are you here because you were dragged out of bed? Are you here because you’re worried what people would think of you if you didn’t come? Or are you here because you want to keep the commandments, because you want to strengthen your testimony, simply because you love the Lord?

President Hartman Rector Jr. said, “I believe this is the greatest lesson that can be learned by the youth of Zion – to do the right thing because you love the Lord. It is so vitally important that, I feel, if you do anything in righteousness for any other reason than you love the Lord, you are wrong – at least you are on very shaky ground.

“And, somewhere your reasons for acting in righteousness will not be strong enough to see you through. You will give way to expediency, or peer group pressure, or honor, or fame, or applause, or the thrill of the moment, or some other worldly reason. Unless your motives are built upon the firm foundation of love of the Lord, you will not be able to stand.”

Whether you have the right motives is important in life, but it is also important in gaining the companionship of the Spirit. Christ said of the Spirit: “Wherefore, I now send upon you another Comforter, even upon you my friends, that it may abide in your hearts, even the Holy Spirit of promise (D&C 88:3).” If our motivations are righteous, the Spirit may dwell within us. But if our motivations become less admirable we allow our hearts to harden, and the Spirit can no longer abide there.

Another thing to consider about the heart is that it is a muscle, and as a muscle it has duties and actions to perform. Physically, it pumps your blood. But spiritually there is a lot more your heart can do. A few scriptural examples:

“my heart pondereth…”

“I cried with my whole heart…”

“Apply thine heart unto instruction…”

“Rejoice, O my heart…”

“Seek Him with the whole heart…”

“The heart of the righteous studieth to answer…”

“your hearts might be prepared to bear testimony…”

“Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart…”

I think we underestimate what it is our hearts can do. Our hearts can ponder, they can seek, they can pray, they can learn. While we sit in sacrament meeting it is important that our minds stay active, but it is infinitely more important that our hearts stay active. Stop worrying about how your dress looks or what you’re going to do when you get home. Turn off your head for a minute and put your heart to work. Work to learn, work to grow, work to hear. I think when we watch the video of our life on the big screen in Heaven we will be surprised how often the Spirit was in the meeting, but our hearts were asleep, and did not notice.

When we can align our hearts with the heart of the Savior, the Spirit will not only abide in us, he will abound in us. The secret to having the Spirit in our meetings may not be to change what we are doing externally but what we are doing internally. The importance of this principle was stressed in D&C 64, verse 22:

“For I, the Lord, require the hearts of the children of men…”

I bear testimony of this eternal principle: the disposition of our hearts will greatly influence our ability to hear the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. If we will keep our hearts actively involved during our church meetings, then our purpose in attending will be accomplished: sincere worship of the Lord Jesus Christ.

I leave these things with you in His sacred name. Amen."