The Rest of Martha's Story

I appreciated that at the Women's Session of the LDS General Conference last night, Linda K. Burton included Martha from the New Testament as a "certain woman"–a woman who knew the identity and power of Christ. I found it interesting that Martha was mentioned because I'd just learned something new about her a couple of days before.

Like many other women in the LDS church, I have been bothered before by Luke's story of Martha in Luke 10. I resented the fact that Jesus reprimanded Martha for handling her hosting duties.



But Jesus did no such thing. He never told Martha that she shouldn't have been serving. When Martha asked Jesus to tell Mary to help her, what Jesus said, in modern terms, was, "Martha, you worry about a lot of things. But Mary has chosen the most important thing." Then an interesting word that I can't modernize with a single substitute: "And it shall not be taken away from her." The phrase "shall not," from my understanding, literally means "shouldn't." But its use in the scriptures is often more imperative than that. So what Martha could have heard was "must not" or even "will not."

I think Jesus meant to do more than gently reprimand Martha with this statement; I think he was giving her a promise. And while my evidence is far from surefire proof, I'm convinced that Martha took it that way.

My evidence comes from John's story of Martha, Mary, and their brother, Lazarus–the story Sister Burton referenced in her talk. I'd always appreciated the testimony Martha bore in this chapter, but I never appreciated some of John's other details until the other day. At this point, Lazarus had died, and "many of of the Jews" had come to to Martha and Mary's house to comfort them. Even while in mourning, Martha doubtless had hostess duties to attend to again.

But when she heard that Jesus was on his way, she left her guests and went straight to Jesus. How about that for change of priorities?

And that's not even all. While she did express her grief that Jesus had not been present sooner to prevent Lazarus' death, Martha followed with three confident statements–three statements that say even more than meets the eye.

"But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee." I don't need to worry about what happens next.

"I know that [my brother] shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day." My brother hasn't been permanently taken away from me.

"I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world." I know that you are the most important thing.

Jesus' reproof and covenant–yes, covenant–had not fallen on deaf ears. Jesus had covenanted that if Martha would put Him first, her most precious things could not be taken away forever. Despite the fact that neither her brother nor her Master had yet emerged alive from their tombs, Martha testified of these truths.

And then what? In the beautiful opposite of her actions in Luke 10, Martha went to Mary to ask her to come to Jesus, too. This perfect resolution makes me want to pump a victory fist. As does John's approving note in the next chapter that "they made him a supper, and Martha served."

I'm so grateful to Jesus and Martha for reminding me that serving–all of our necessary duties that bless ourselves and others–are good and needed, but that focusing first on Christ and bringing others to Him is our insurance for present and eternal joy.

Strength Faithened

You know those times when the connection between your brain and your mouth is momentarily snapped? You end up saying things like:

“Will you stow to the gore and get me some ghosted rarlic?”

Hopefully you’ve said something similar and I’m not just a weirdo English major who’s read Shel Silverstein’s Runny Babbit too many times. (Well, I am, and I have. But let’s move on.) Generally, linguistic slip-ups like these just fing a smile to my brace. But one particular instance of this “Runny Babbit talk” stands out in my memory as genuinely important.

If I remembered who said it, I’d give them credit, but I don’t. All I remember is that I was in a religious setting and someone, quite by accident, used the phrase “strength faithened”. Of course they’d meant “faith strengthened”, and that’s how I took it at the time. But the Runny Babbit enthusiast inside me stowed the original words into one of my mind’s numerous fandom boxes.

Fast-forward a few years. I’m living on my own, hundreds of miles away from my parents and childhood home—supposedly a big girl. Yet I’m in my parked car bawling into the steering wheel.

Nothing earth-shatteringly awful had happened to me or any of my loved ones for a very long time. I was healthy, financially safe, and surrounded by great friends. But I had some questions I felt only God could answer that I felt weren’t being answered, despite the fact that I’d “done my homework”. So I was ticked.

I gave the longest, wettest, ventiest prayer I can ever remember giving that night. I’m not proud of the things I said. After listing my woes and frustrations and questions and crying enough tears to fill both my car’s cup holders, I finished with the following summary:

“I feel like I’ve always been a pretty strong person—always been able to keep going when things got tough. I’m still trying to be strong, but I feel like that’s not getting me anywhere. I can’t go on like this.”

I returned to my apartment with no more answers than I’d started with and went to bed. The sleep brought me a little peace and a lot more sanity; I woke up ready to view the previous night rationally.

So I started thinking. I remembered what I’d told God about trying to be strong. And then to the top of my mind floated that Runny Babbit-esque phrase: strength faithened. But why? As I let my brain keep sifting, pieces of my prayer echoed back to me. One word stood out in each of them:

“I know You’re wiser than I am, but you don’t seem to understand what I’m going through.”

“I know You want what’s best for me, but it doesn’t seem like you’re giving me what’s best.”

“I know I’m supposed to be learning and growing, but these experiences don’t seem to be helping me.”

Did I really know the things I said I knew? I searched within myself, but didn’t have to ponder long—I knew I did. I'd known them for years. That was part of the problem: each of those truths was a given, so basic, too simple. How could they possibly help me with my complicated problems? That’s when an image unfolded in my mind, and I realized how hard I'd been making things on myself. .

I saw my questions or burdens as a boulder blocking my path, my personal strength as a lever, and my faith as a fulcrum. With every “but” in my prayer, I was choosing to ignore truth. I was kicking aside my faith and trying to be strong without it. And that was about as effective as poking a boulder with a stick.

Without faith, my strength was useless. The only way I was ever going to move the boulder was by placing the lever on top of the fulcrum—in other words, letting what I believed be the foundation of my power. I needed my strength faithened.

So I went to work. Instead of dismissing the truths I'd known since my childhood, I clung to them. I repeated them to myself every time concerns threatened to overwhelm me. It didn't work immediately. But when I chose again and again to actively trust what I already knew, every “but” eventually became a “so”:

“I know You’re wiser than I am, so you must understand what I’m going through.”

“I know You want what’s best for me, so You must be giving me what’s best.”

“I know I’m supposed to be learning and growing, so these experiences must be helping me.”

Things were still hard. I still didn’t have the answers I wanted, and I didn’t like living without them. But my path had been cleared.

And so, with strength faithened, I move forward. 

What I’ve Learned About Dating From Job Hunting

I hate job hunting. It’s a boring, whiny, and universal statement, but true. I recently relocated despite having no promising job prospects in the area, and I’ve spent about as much time searching for work as my psyche can handle.

Why did I move to a city jobless? Because it’s where my boyfriend lives. And, at the risk of getting a few choruses of “Duh”, I really like my boyfriend. He is completely worth the six awkward years of dates and non-dates and not-supposed-to-be-dates-but-ended-up-as-dates I had to go through before finding him.

When I thought about it, I realized that job hunting and significant other hunting are similar. Stunningly so. Maybe I’m just slow on the uptake and everyone else figured this out years ago, but the parallels were quite illuminating to me.  

Honest but Confident

In creating my resume, I’ve had a hard time finding the balance between talking myself up and truthfully depicting my talents. For instance, I’d listed the Excel program as one of my skills. But after taking (okay, bombing) an online Excel test, I realized that I’d forgotten a lot of what I’d learned. Thus, I moved Excel from my “Expert at” list to my “Familiar with” list. After all, I’d hate to get a job and find that I’m expected to set up crazy formulas I’ve never used in a spreadsheet.

Talking myself up was even tougher. I mean, can a few volunteer hours for an arts organization count as public relations experience? But my mother reminded me that I had done legitimate PR work for this organization and done it well (hooray for people who pump us up!). She convinced me to include the position in my resume.

These same principles apply to dating. Granted, we’re not “selling ourselves” to potential dates the same way we are to potential employers. But we will be giving ourselves: our strengths, our weaknesses, our personalities. The people we date—or at least the ones we date seriously—need to know what they should and shouldn’t expect from us. But in honestly acknowledging our shortcomings, we must also keep our confidence. Because we are awesome! It hurts us not to believe that. And our potential dates may miss out on knowing us if we don’t let our awesomeness show.

Looking in More Places

  

I had a phone conversation with my younger (and married and impressively employed) sister the other day. She asked how the job hunt was going; I said I was doing it online and had found limited success.

“Most jobs aren’t posted online, Sis,” she told me. “The only way I got my job was by talking with everyone I knew. That’s when I started hearing about positions I’d never even caught a whiff of when I’d been searching exclusively online.”

The idea of leaving the ease and security of my computer didn’t thrill me. I grumbled a bit before realizing that I’d done the same thing years before in terms of my social life: I’d glued myself into my comfort zone. Only after being dragged to a dozen not-my-thing social events with not-my-type people had I made the variety of friends I enjoy today. Most of my favorite dates came from this pool of people.

We can’t expect to find our special someones within our comfort zones. Whether it’s joining a new club, hanging out with people we haven’t before, or simply leaving our movie caves, we have to not only keep looking, but look in more places.

Picky vs. Selective

  

Timing also makes things tough. Ideally, I could get a job in my field that will yield relevant experience, but I also need to start making money before my savings are drained. I’ve found myself asking, “How long can I wait? At what point should I stop being choosy and take what I can get?”

A fair question, too, in terms of finding a spouse. On one hand, most of us know (or think we know) what we want. But we’d rather not wait years for the perfect candidate—if he/she even exists. So what do we do?

First of all, we’ve gotta be open to more possibilities than the “ideal”. Just like I could miss an exciting marketing job if I only type “writing” into my search bar, we could pass up great relationships by refusing to go on dates with people who may not be our preferred type. I don’t have to take every job I apply for, and we don’t have to marry all the people we go on dates with (thank heavens). No need to be too picky.

But we shouldn’t drop a spouse the same way we quit a job if things aren’t going well. For relationships, we have to make a list of the nonnegotiable traits we need most in a life partner: religion, work ethic, outlook on life, whatever. And we can never give up on finding someone with those traits, no matter how long it takes. That’s not being picky; that’s being selective. It’s something we can’t afford not to be when choosing the person to build our lives with.   

Don’t Freak Out!

  

Job hunting will always suck. Always. And no matter what job I finally acquire, it’ll have drawbacks. But chucking my laptop across the room in frustration won’t improve my chances or my well-being.

Neither will freaking out about our love lives (or lack thereof). I know as well as anyone the insane levels of clumsiness, tedium, and pain reached in dating. But we can’t dwell on those. Isn’t the whole point of dating to find someone who makes us happy? We will—as long as we don’t give up.

So I’ll write another cover letter. I’ll ask another friend if they know of anybody in my field who’s hiring.  I’ll put on the slacks I hate ironing to look presentable for another interview.

Then I’ll come home and kiss my boyfriend. :)  

Disney Princess Hunger Games

Originally appearing in a blog for one of my Lit classes at BYU last year, now resurrected in my personal blog. Names have been changed. Sorry the picture isn't of better quality. Hope y'all enjoy the post, anyway. :)

“It’s gotta be Mulan.”

“Why not Merida? She’s got some sweet archery skills.”

“But does she also have hand-to-hand combat, swordsmanship, and the brains to wipe out an entire army with a single cannon and some snow? I don’t think so.”

It’s our second round of Disney Princess Hunger Games in as many days, and the Gamemakers of Apartment 9¾ are hard at work. We’ve got two whiteboards out: one with a map of the New Orleans arena (drawn by Wes, a native of that city) and the other with a list of characters and events. I’m not sure whose baby this idea was, but we’re the village raising it.

We’re pretty weird. But it’s a good weird . . . I think.

Courtney, our Head Gamemaker, sits Gandhi-style (as opposed to Gangnam Style, although Courtney does have talents for dancing) atop an end table, marker in hand. “The map is done, yes?” she asks Wes, who nods and holds up his work.

“‘Waterlogged ghetto’?” Daniel asks, peering at said region of the map.

“Chalmette,” I tell him. “My turf. But it was dry long before I got there, Wes.”

“It is pretty ghetto, though,” he says, dodging the elbow I shove at him. “Except for the Brad Pitt houses.”

Leann wrinkles her nose. “Multiple summer homes in one city? Typical Brad Pitt.”

“They’re not his houses,” I clarify. “After Hurricane Katrina, he paid to have all these apartment-style houses built in the spot that had been hit the hardest—gave them away. Nice of him. They were supposed to be trendy, but mostly they’re just ridiculous.”

“Right?” Wes says. “Their bright colors are pukeworthy.”

Stephanie creeps into the room—probably trying to hide her dressy shirt and curled hair—but gives herself away when she steps on the now-empty bag of Leann’s homemade popcorn. We finished it long ago—I don’t think Leann ate more than a couple handfuls.

“Look who’s all ready for her date!” Courtney squeals.

“You look great!” Gretchen tells Stephanie. “If he compliments your hair, you can thank me. Are you leaving right now?”

“Almost. I’ve just gotta put on my legs.” She rolls up her jeans and straps on her braces.

“Aw—you’ll miss Mulan winning the New Orleans edition,” I tell her.

Jake winces for me. “Actually, Mulan is dead.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since we lit the city on fire.”

“I thought we’d decided on a swarm of nutria rats.”

“That’s not ‘til later.”

A knock at the door fails to interrupt us. “Come in!” we all shout without looking up. In walks Tanner—one of the cutest guys in the complex. Someone who, in my brain’s idyllic fantasy world, actually thinks I’m borderline cool. I remember what we’re doing and wince.

“What are you guys up to?” he asks before spotting the whiteboards. “Oh my gosh—Disney Princess Hunger Games? Are you guys serious?” Before we have time to answer, he rushes on: “Rapunzel is going to win, right? She’s got crazy arm strength from hauling her stepmother into her tower all the time.”

Yeah, we’re a good weird.

Coolest Christmas Present EVER!!!

Okay, I must be the luckiest girl alive! In addition to all my other wondrous Christmas gifts, I received something that most people wouldn't find very cool but that I find amazing. Remember my list of favorite books from a couple posts ago? Well, my mom knew that I wanted my own copy of one of my favorites, "These is My Words." But she went the extra mile, to say the least. My last present Christmas morning was a small package sent from an address in Tuscon. I recognized the sender's name immediately: Nancy E. Turner! She is the author of "These is My Words," so I unwrapped the package with much excitement. Lo and behold, there laid a brand-new copy of the book, and it was signed by Nancy herself! The message read, "For Katie, Merry Christmas and all best wishes! 'Keep your eyes on the horizon . . . ' Nancy E. Turner, December 25, 2010." I kept the package as a souveneir and thanked my mom many times over. She has been Nancy's e-mail pen pal for a while (so jealous!) and apparently asked her to sign the book for me. I'm now rereading the book and enjoying it very, very much. Hooray for my mother, and hooray for Christmas!

The esteemed author, Nancy E. Turner

The lovely book

Final Personal Narrative

Here's my final draft of my personal narrative. Hope you enjoy.  :)


Knowing Dad

The postlude sent mellow reverberations through the chapel as I stood up from my seat. I elbowed my sister a signal to wait up for me and slid past her; I had a question for Dad. On my way to the organ, he threw in an impromptu scale in the bass line, and I chuckled. Just short of the stand, our teacher caught my eye and I reluctantly paused.
 “Thank you for your comments today,” he said happily. “Very insightful.”
Modesty required a demure smile and shrug, and I answered, “Thank you for the lesson. Missionary Prep is always my favorite.” With an apologetic glance at the organ, I finished, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just have to ask my dad something.”
He did a double take. “Jon is your father?” he asked in mild surprise, barely waiting for my nod. “Really? I had no idea! Although, I guess I should have guessed—you look just like him.”
“Yes,” I rehearsed, “with the round face and dark hair . . .”
“That’s right,” he affirmed with enthusiasm. “Gee, what a great man he is! I’m always telling people how friendly President Pike is to everyone. And talented, too—those hymns today were amazing, weren’t they? He must work so hard, what with his job and church calling and position on the City Council and all. You are very lucky to have him as a dad.”
I turned in time to watch Dad make a registration change and a key change simultaneously.
“I know.”
*    *    *
A few days later, on our way to Pine Valley Reservoir for our Pike Family reunion, our Suburban took a slight detour. We were using directions from Mapquest (our first mistake). About fifteen minutes from Eden, where our condo was located, we missed a crucial left turn. It had come up faster than the instructions had made it sound. As soon as we passed it, our navigator, Mom, said, “Oh, shoot—I think that was the turn!”
“You think it was the turn?” cried my dad, who was driving.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.”
“Is that what the directions said?”
“I think so . . .” and she proceeded to read off the last few lines off the map. That was enough to convince my dad, but I knew from the way he lowered his head and stiffened his arms that there was no way he was going to make this easy.
“I think we need to turn around,” Mom admitted.
“We’re not turning around.”
A patience-gathering pause. “Look, I’m sorry I made us miss the turn. It was completely my fault. But I don’t know my way around up here—I won’t be able to get us there if we don’t go back.”
“You didn’t get us there the first time!” I couldn’t decide whether to snicker or cower at the jab; Dad hands out accusations like candy canes—not often, but with exuberance in the times he deems appropriate. In his defense, he’d been driving for six hours straight with six kids in the back quoting “Monte Python” and “Spongebob” the entire time.
“So what now—are we going to drive around the whole lake?”
“Yup.”
All apologies evaporated, Mom sat back in her seat for a long silence and an even longer drive. Even the ruffians in the backseat had the sense to shut up. I let things simmer for a minute until I caught Dad covertly searching for a shoulder wide enough for him to pull over and turn around. Not that he would have—he passed up a few good ones. But it was my signal that his defenses were weakening. So I threw on my casual voice and asked Mom if I could see the map. She handed it to me with a surrendering look, to which I replied with an “I got this” jerk of the head.
After a quick study of the directions, I said, “Yup—that was the turn, all right. Weird, how much shorter .7 miles is on the road than on paper . . .” The quiet that followed did not worry me.
“So how far is it around the lake, Daddy?”
“Probably another half-hour. Maybe more,” he grouched.
“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully. Then I waited again until his hands began to slack a bit.
“You know, Mom did say she needed some caffeine for her headache,” I mused after spotting a gas station posing as a cabin a quarter-mile ahead. “We could pull into that little station there to get Mom a Dr. Pepper and then turn around on our way out.”
“I’m okay,” Mom muttered sulkily at me. I gave her an apologetic/defensive shrug and waited for Dad to respond.
“We don’t need to stop,” he mumbled as we approached the gas station, and I wondered if I had lost after all. But then at the last second, he turned jarringly into the parking lot and flipped around towards the missed turn. Mom threw me a smirk the first time Dad checked his side view mirror.
Not another word was spoken until we had reached the outskirts of Eden, where Dad began pointing out old homesteads and routes to neighboring towns. By the time we pulled up to the condo, my dad was in high spirits, my sibs had returned to their usual rowdiness, and my mom looked ready to sigh of either relief or complete submission of will.
I didn’t remember to be smug about the incident until I caught Mom recounting the story of my coerciveness to my aunts later that night. She was a good loser—somewhere between admiring of and amused at my triumph.
“Well, we always knew she was her daddy’s girl,” Aunt Suzanne pointed out.
My head cocked at that; me, a daddy’s girl? Of course, I’d grown up hearing complete strangers say things like, “You must be Jon’s daughter,” but I’d assumed that the comments referred to our physical appearances. The appraisal of Suzanne’s had piqued my curiosity. So when my aunts had all been coerced away by clingy children or the dinner dishes, I sat down across from my mom, trying to look casual.
“So . . .” I started, “Sorry I had to steal your glory earlier.”
    She shrugged and gave a willing smile. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m just glad someone was able to change his mind. Heaven knows I can’t always do it.”
    I spared her a hurried chuckle and hinted, “I’m surprised I was able to.”
    “I’m not,” she said, and I leaned forward expectantly. “You’ve always had a way with your dad.”
    “I have?”
    “Yes. He doesn’t always show it, but he has a soft spot for you. Of course, he has one for each of you kids, but you and he have always shared a special connection.”
    This was all news to me. “Why—are our personalities similar? Or is it because I’m the oldest child like him? What is it?”
    “Those things are probably parts of it,” she mused, looking almost as pleased to be giving these revelations as I was to be listening. “But you’ve been a daddy’s girl almost from when you were born. He was your main caregiver for the first year of your life, you know.”
    I didn’t know. This was getting more interesting by the minute. “He was?”
    “Yes, he was. I went back to my job just a couple months after you were born, and I had to travel out of town almost every week. Your dad stayed home and took care of you when I was gone, and you two got very, very close. So there was a special bond there from the very beginning.”
    My mind began sifting through memories at top speed for evidence—was this all true? But it didn’t take much thought for me to realize what I’d always felt. I turned to my mom with only one more question left to ask.
    “Where’s Dad?”
*    *    *
    The closing credits of “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” climbed smoothly up the darkened T.V. screen. I glanced at the bed to see Dad carving a slice of cheddar with a finesse to match Chopin’s.    “Hey, Scat-Kat,” he said after spotting me. “Whatcha doing?”
    I moved to stand beside the bed. “Nothing. Just came to say ‘hi.’”
    He hummed a satisfied reply and turned his attention back to the television. “You missed the movie,” he stated.
    “That’s okay.” I took a seat next to him and laid an arm across his shoulder. “Love you, Dad.”
    He tilted his head back to look at me. “I love you too, Sis.”
    A smile sent my lip-corners rising.
    “I know.”

Evaluative Conclusion

Well, it's been an interesting first semester here at BYU and in my Writing 150H class. This has been my first experience with a blog, so I've had to learn a few things. First of all, I learned that blogging is neither as hard nor as strange as it sounds--maybe I'll keep blogging in the future. I learned about visual rhetoric and how it can apply to blogs--which fonts are readable, what colors are most attractive, and most importantly, to include lots of pictures (which is something I've improved in). Theme, I've found, is also important to blogs, so I've tried to keep within my chosen theme of the written word for most of my blog. I've learned how to "follow" people on blogs and how helpful it can be to listen to comments on your work online (it's convenient that way). Although I've had my frustrations with the blog (namely that it won't let me cut and paste from Word documents on my computer--grrr!!!), I would say that it has been a positive experience overall. So blog on, world!  :)