It's Summer, so Reach Out and Touch a Cloud

View from our second flight as we flew over Cuba.

The first leg of our trip was a red eye and even if I had wanted to look out the window, I was too exhausted to even try. I had barely slept at all over the past several days as we finalized preparations for our trip and finished out the school year. But when the sun rose and we began our next flight, I couldn't let much time go by without making my way to the window and taking it all in. It is against my nature. So I talked Ceci into letting me sit in her seat and she sit on my lap. We peered out together as the plane flew over Cuba and that is when I felt the first surge of summer. I was free from the preoccupation of school, work, and the rigor of our weekly routines. And I was present, just taking in the view with Cecilia and actually able to listen as she chattered along. "Mommy, I wish I could reach out and touch a cloud," she began.
"That would be fun! What do you think it would feel like?"
"A cotton ball!" she responded with an enthusiastic smile. And then her next thought came as she pointed to the wing of the airplane, "Imagine if you could walk out on the wing!"
"Do you think you could survive?" I questioned.
"No way!" she exclaimed. And without a breath, she continued into her next thought, "And that's what I've always wondered...what if we didn't exist? What if there was no world?"

At that moment I remembered having those same deep wonderings as a child, my mind not able to grasp the what-ifs and the hows of this grand universe. And as an adult I still don't understand everything, but at that moment, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the blessing of being a mother--her mother and Marcela's mother--the chance to journey with them in this life and to share the deepest of thoughts and questions, and especially to be able to really listen in the moment to her little mind and how it's processing everything that she takes in. These are the moments that invite true teaching and learning.

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Fast forward to a few days later as we were in the bedroom at Abuela Rina's house and I was brushing her hair, Cecilia said, "Mommy, this might make you cry, but why do you love me?" My heart smiled. She is so tender. And she knows that to express my love, sometimes I do cry. This time I didn't cry, but I told her all of the things that we love about her: how she is the comedian of the family, how her singing brings life to our house, how she is so kind-hearted, how she loves to read and how her artwork brightens our walls, how life just wouldn't be complete without her and the beauty and light that she brings to it.

I'm thankful to be a mom and I'm thankful for summer vacation where the daily rhythm of life can change enough that I can see, feel, hear, and touch these precious moments as a mother. The photos in this post came from one of those moments when I was free to follow Cecilia's impulse to venture into the quiet street in front of Abuela Rina's house and dance and spin in her Sunday dress for the camera. I love these pictures because they are her. I just followed her cues and her innocent, childhood beauty glowed in the setting sun. I need these moments to relish in the beauty of simple things that fill me.

I Don't Want to Forget: "It's Just Over the Next Hill"

*This is the fourth [and final] post in a of a series about things I never want to forget from my days on the trail, Summer 2015.

As I mentioned in a previous post, our final day of trekking began with alarm clocks waking us at 3:30 a.m. Taking down camp and getting breakfast and on the road went smoothly. And then our bus drivers missed the turn and we didn't realize it until much later. We ended up with a 2 hour delay on what was already going to be a very long day.

Another challenge for our leaders were the legal restrictions we had as a group crossing protected lands. The Federal Bureau of Land Management is very protective of the trail and doesn't allow groups to split up as they travel this section of the trail. So anytime someone needed to stop for something, the entire caravan had to stop. It was early evening and we were finally exiting the federally protected lands and leaders had no other choice, but to "rev the throttle" as you might say. Groups began traveling very quickly.  

It wasn't more than 5 minutes into this increased pace that one of the youth in our group needed to stop for medical reasons and I needed to stop with her. We may have stopped for anywhere from 3-5 minutes, but that little amount of time was enough that we never reached our family again. We jogged to try and catch up, but every time we approached a cart, we would realize it wasn't our group. The young girl found a friend that she wanted to walk with and I kept walking at my own pace, jogging again at times to see if I could catch up with our family, but had no such luck. I found myself walking alone and at 15 miles in, my mind began to wander. I was parched. And the literal and figurative rainclouds had begun to form in the distance. And at first my thoughts turned to our family..."How could they just leave us behind?" I had envisioned crossing the invisible finishing line together, cheering and doing a victory dance. But I was alone. I had not even thought to grab my water bottle off the cart or a rain poncho.

My thoughts went back and forth as I struggled with my reality. And perhaps there was a reason for this separation from my family because as I walked, I began to have little glimpses in my mind of the similitude between my journey that day and the journey of life. 

Just as the bus driver's wrong turn affected our group, other peoples' wrong turns can affect us in life. But how we deal with those wrong turns makes all the difference. We cannot control others. We can only control our reactions.

How about being alone on the trail without having planned to finish the journey that way? Sometimes we can feel alone in life. And sometimes we even have to walk parts of our journey with no one by our side. 

And perhaps the lack of a water bottle and rain poncho were the biggest lessons I learned of not being prepared when unexpected emergencies arise. Had I been prepared, I would have had my canteen on my person. I would have had a poncho in my pocket. And yes, being prepared temporally aligns with this comparison, but more-so in my mind I pondered on being prepared spiritually and emotionally to face our journey when unexpected trials come along. I realized how much I cannot depend on anyone else's testimony but my own to pull me through. I must be nourishing my soul through studying the scriptures and praying often. No one else can loan me their relationship with God to get me through. I must do that on my own. 

The day was long. Life is long. And it isn't easy. But we have to keep on trekking to the end. And just like on the trail when my feet were swollen and throbbing, blisters had formed and reformed, and I just wanted to stop,  I just had to take it one hill at a time. And just as I made it over one hill, the next one was on the horizon...a seemingly endless trail. 

This rainbow was a reminder of God's love for me as I walked those last miles alone. And in my reflection of this experience, I am glad I could walk the last part alone to reflect on the things that I can do to better prepare myself for when I do finally climb that last final hill of life. 

This rock was placed at Rock Creek Hollow where we finished our trek and where 13 of the saints were buried on a cold snowy morning after they had froze to death the night before. The rock was erected as a reminder to the people who built this memorial to remember the lessons they learned from the pioneers who gave their lives to this cause. I was among that original group who was blessed to participate in the events that lead to building this historical site and a grateful for the blessings and lessons learned then, but this time around this rock holds a new meaning for me for the lessons I learned as an adult on the trail and I will hold this experience forever sacred in my heart. May we never forget. 

I Don't Want to Forget: There are Angels Among Us

Our group of less than 200 was the first of the 6,000 permitted to traverse Rocky Ridge in the summer of 2015. 

*This is the third of a series of posts about things I never want to forget from my days on the trail, Summer 2015. 

Our final day included climbing over Rocky Ridge, a portion of the trail over several miles that has jagged pieces of rock protruding from it. In the conditions we were in, it was noticeably harder than the normal trail, but nothing compared to the stories told of the pioneers in the Willie Company who crossed this portion of the trail on their death beds, starving and freezing in two feet of snow and a howling wind that brought temperatures well below zero. They had nothing to protect them and little strength.

When we got to the monument at Rocky Ridge, we waited at the top of the hill and watched as our friend (President Charles DeGraffenried), the great, great, great grandson of Jens Nielson reenacted the story of his ancestors' struggle over this portion of the trail. The story goes that Jens was a wealthy and strong 6' 2" Danish farmer who converted to the gospel in Denmark and sold all he had and gave everything to the church except for enough to get a handcart and 15 pounds of provisions for each member of his family to make it to Zion. By the time he got to Rocky Ridge with the Willie Handcart Company, he was starving. He had given much of his little daily provision to his family members to keep them alive. He was very frozen and could walk no more. He begged his 4'11" wife Elsie to leave him in the snow to die and to go on and try to save her own life. She responded that she could not leave him and commanded him to get in the cart and she would pull him. And that she did. The reenactment in terms of height and strength was very close as President DeGraffenried's is a tall and strong man and his wife is short and petite. As we sat and watched as a small Sister DeGraffenried tried to pull her tall husband in the cart up a steep hill in such rocky terrain, I could only imagine the struggle the original pioneers must have had. And then suddenly 3 young girls began walking down the trail to meet up with the cart and silently joined to help push the cart over the ridge. A voice of one of the leaders spoke out at this point and described that in some histories, the pioneers tell of unseen help pushing the carts along when they felt they couldn't any longer. Some say perhaps they were the spirits of unborn children helping their parents along the way.

After the reenactment, strong testimonies were born by those who participated. I remember particularly Sister DeGraffenried testifying of the help of angels in our lives when we are going through tough times. She said, "...We glorify these pioneers, as well should we, but you guys are going through some hard trials...and I want you to know he will bless you just as much as he blessed Jens and Elsie [Nielson]. He will send angels to your aid when you need it as you are trying to do the things the Lord wants you to do."

I have felt these angels when the trail has gotten rocky in my life. Some of them have been friends here on earth that have lightened my load. And I know that unseen angels have also been present to help me when I most needed it. I am grateful to know that we are not alone in this journey of life and that Heavenly Father sends angels to help us along our way. I believe to that there are "Angels Among Us sent from somewhere up above." And I cry every time I hear this song.

Angels Among Us 

Alabama

I was walkin' home from school
On a cold winter day,
Took a short cut through the woods
And I lost my way.
It was gettin' late, and I was scared and alone.
But then a kind old man took my hand, and led me home.
Mama couldn't see him,
But he was standing there,
And I knew in my heart
He was the answer to my prayer.

Oh, I believe there are Angels Among Us,
Sent down to us from somewhere up above.
They come to you and me in our darkest hours
To show us how to live
To teach us how to give
To guide us with a light of love.

When life held troubled times
And had me down on my knees
There's always been someone
To come along and comfort me
A kind word from a stranger
To lend a helping hand
A phone call from a friend
Just to say I understand
Now ain't it kind of funny
At the dark end of the road
Someone lights the way with just a single ray of hope.

Oh, I believe there are Angels Among Us,
Sent down to us from somewhere up above.
They come to you and me in our darkest hours
To show us how to live
To teach us how to give
To guide us with a light of love.

They wear so many faces,
Show up in the strangest places
And grace us with their mercy in our time of need.

Oh, I believe there are Angels Among Us,
Sent down to us from somewhere up above.
They come to you and me in our darkest hours
To show us how to live
To teach us how to give
To guide us with a light of love.

To guide us with a light of love.

I Don't Want to Forget: I Can Do Hard Things

Long before the horizon was painted pink by the rising sun, our flashlight lit what the full moon could not. It was time to begin our final day . .  at 3:30 a.m.

*This is the second of a series of posts about things I never want to forget from my days on the trail, Summer 2015. 

The title may be a little deceiving. Let me expound. I can do hard things. But not without God's help. Even before I went on this trek, I knew that I could do hard things, but I was reminded again just as it says in Matthew 19:26 "...with God all things are possible."

The first two days of our trek had consisted of a couple of 6 mile hikes. We did a lot of stopping and learning and talking along the way and even crossed a little river in the rain, but each day ended somewhat early with games, dancing, and a warm cup of Ramen or hot chocolate. Ramen? Yes. It was Armando's idea and surprisingly, the majority of the kids in our "family" chose that over hot cocoa. And I digressed. Ramen has nothing to do with hard things. In short, our first couple of days were comparatively easy. 

At the end of the second day, we were informed by the trek leaders that we would need to have the youth up and taking down camp by 4:30 a.m. in order to load the buses and be transported to our starting point an hour away. The day that awaited us was going to be a long one and if we didn't start early, we wouldn't make it before sunset. That meant that Armando and I would need to get up by about 3:30 a.m. in order to be ready ourselves to help the youth get moving. 

If any of you know me, you know that getting up before 6 a.m. is not my favorite thing to do. So 3:30 a.m. was really stretching it.We had a little motivational fireside chat with our family (as most sipped their Ramen) and off to bed we went. But not before praying. And we prayed hard. 

When the 3:30 a.m. alarm sounded I was wide awake and had this energy that just surged through my body. It wasn't a physical energy as much as an emotional energy that I was so ready to just conquer this day. I just felt like singing from the rooftops. And I knew that this was a small miracle that God had worked in me for the benefit of His children that He loves. "And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them." (Ether 12:27)

And it turns out I would need every last drop of that energy for what we would face that day. It all began when our bus driver took a wrong turn and we began our trekking two hours later than planned. 

I Don't Want to Forget: The Background Story

*This is a first of a series of posts about things I never want to forget from my days on the trail, Summer 2015. 

"During 1856, five handcart companies of nearly 1,900 people traveled from Iowa City, Iowa to Salt Lake City, Utah. The first three companies arrived safely with limited problems. Less than 27 of the 816 members of those companies died during the journey of over 1,300 miles." (1)

However, the final two companies didn't have such a fortunate journey. They got a late start and had lots of troubles with handcarts that were made with wood that was too green. They were traveling too slow and their leaders realized that the original rations would not get them to their destination. Since it was still warm and they had not experienced any real signs of winter, at the final crossing of the Platte River in Wyoming, their captain decided to have them reduce their 17 pounds of personal belongings down to 10 pounds. Of course, any heavy clothing and heavy blankets were the first things to go. And they were ordered to burn what was left behind so that no one would be tempted to return and savage through the items and sneak them onto their carts. Within a few short days they were facing a terrible winter storm with little to protect them from the elements. And that was only the beginning of their struggles. 

Many stories of their suffering and hardship have been recorded. Since I was raised near where they crossed in Wyoming, I grew up hearing the stories of these pioneers. As a youth, I got to participate in a Handcart Trek along the same trail. Unfortunately, I was not prepared enough at that time to really come away with profound lessons that perhaps I could have. But, in June 2015, Armando and I had the opportunity to travel the miles where these pioneers suffered the most. We were asked to be "Ma and Pa" for a group of 10 youth from our neighborhood who would make this trek through difficult terrain. We walked where they walked and learned of their stories of courage and faith. And from that experience there are some lessons learned that I never want to forget. I'm finally writing them down mixed with a few photos from the trip that I hold close to my heart. 

Rays of sunlight bath the face of the Rattle Snake Range just around the bend from Martin's Cove, Wyoming. It is here where the pioneers sought refuge from the horrific conditions they faced in the early winter of 1856. 

1. (Remember The Willie and Martin Handcart Companies and their rescuers - past and present, Riverton, Wyoming Stake,

Coming Out of the Fog

Morning fog in the summer near LaPine, Oregon.

The girls and I made a trip with my Mom this summer to visit my sister and her family in their new home in Oregon. We had a 12 hour drive ahead of us and we set out early in hopes that the girls would sleep a few hours and that we'd be able to get home at a decent hour. We kept ourselves entertained with an audio book that my little sister, Annie, had been telling us we had to read. You've probably heard about it. It's called The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo. And, let me tell you, it has been just that: absolute MAGIC!

The day after we got back, the girls and I began immediately to go through our items categorically one-by-one beginning with clothing and to decide whether each item brought us joy. We then organized and tidied up the place. I got rid of a 25 gallon garbage bag full of papers that I had filed away. Who really needs to keep so many paper trails? I have felt so liberated. The great thing is that now that I have tidied up and gotten rid of unnecessary clutter, I have time to really focus on the important things in my life. There is nothing to fog up my mind or bog me down with so many things to take care of. 

Last week I had the opportunity to attend a training for school. It was an unpaid training and would require getting a babysitter, etc. I was going back and forth on whether or not I wanted to attend and in the end, I decided to go for it. It was a Steven R. Covey 7 Habits of Highly Effective People Training in preparation for a grant we received to be a Leader in Me School. This training came at the perfect time when I have been able to get my life a little more organized. I was able to reflect on what I really want as an end-result in my life and write a personal mission statement. I have been struggling with getting up early enough to exercise and read my scriptures before the day gets too crazy. And that's just one little area of struggle. I have all kinds of things that I need to improve, but I feel like this workshop gave me the tools and mindset to work on them. At a time when I would normally be a stressed disaster (just as I'm trying to get everything at school together), I am feeling very optimistic and excited to overcome myself, to exercise daily and spend time studying my scriptures so that I can be the best wife, mom, teacher, sister, daughter, friend, visiting teacher, etc. that I can be. 

And today, I finally did it. I got out of bed before anyone else and I left the house and went for a jog. And I listened to my scriptures while I did it. And it felt so good.

And this is the sunrise that I got to witness . . . just me and the singing birds. It feels good to be out of the fog. 

August Sunrise. A new beginning as the fog clears.

Marcela's World Would Be A Better Place If . . .

the animals of the world didn't have to worry about deforestation. 

Didn't she do a beautiful job of depicting happy trees and monkeys and tigers! :) I didn't get as many photos of Marcela because she was done much quicker and headed off to help Armando prepare the foam core for the paintings. I love the vibrant colors of her work. Love my budding artists! Well done, Marcela.

Ceci's World Would Be A Better Place If . . .

we all made healthier choices. 

This year's PTA Reflections Contest theme was: "The World Would Be A Better Place if . . . " And the kids were to complete the sentence through artistic expression in a variety of categories. Both of my girls chose to water color their ideas. We had been discussing her ideas for a few days and in true Iden/Reyes fashion waited until the night before to throw it all together. Ceci sketched out her bowls and then added the food items and painted them. Just when I thought she was finished and I was ready to go to bed and call it quits, she decided that her bowls needed to be on a picnic table and of course it had to have a red-checkered table cloth. So, she went to work on those details and added the final touch of the butterfly (all her own ideas) and I was quite impressed with her final product!  

 On the left are unhealthy choices, like ice cream, pizza, and french fries. On the right are all kinds of fruits and vegetables - an orange, banana, pineaple, grapes, strawberry and a carrot.

 Whenever my girls do artwork, I always compliment them and tell them how impressed I am with their work and thell them what amazing artists they are. Recently Cecilia responded, "I know, Mom! It's because I'm an artist!" That she is!

I also have to mention Armando's help - at the last minute measuring and gluing their artwork to foam core to turn it in. The next morning, I took a quick picture of Cecilia's finished work. I love that the pink cowgirl hat that Marcela loaned her is showing from behind for the school's hat day.

New Beginnings

Postings here seem to be getting fewer and further between. I never intended to stop, but I did slow down and then it seems that getting out of the habit just slows you down that much more. I'm posting a selfie that says I'm returning to the blogging world. Perhaps not with the quantity of posts, but I do want to document our life together as a family and get my fleeting thoughts down somehow because things change so quickly and I don't want to forget these days. There is so much to write and so much to remember. So I'm starting here. today. with this. And if I reminisce sometime about the things I haven't written, so be it, but from here on out I'm determined to write consistently. My goal is at least once a week. Cross your fingers for me. XO

Is This More Than a Lull? Warning: This is a rambler.

Once upon a time I had a different schedule and a different routine. And I felt much more "productive" in the blogosphere and in my life in general. My now four-year-old was just a baby and her early morning feedings would pull me from my bed hours before my side of the earth saw sunlight and I would be left awake with time just for me on my hands . . . time to do things I could never do after the rest of the family arose and I would be off to my full-time job. Armando would be off to work almost as early as she woke up and so there was no reason to crawl back into an empty bed and barely fall asleep before it was time to get up again. So I'd blog and make books and I enjoyed my time doing so. My mind was alert despite the little sleep I would get. I had a constant list of things I wanted to write about my girls and family. I would have a line up of posts for sometimes weeks ahead of myself. 

Fast forward to today. My baby's four. She sleeps in. Armando has a different schedule. So instead of getting up early, I stay up late waiting for him and almost never have the physical, mental, and emotional energy to use this alone time like I used to use the 5 a.m. alone time. It's been more than 35 days since I've blogged. And even then I was writing about something from three months prior. I still have a desire to create books. And I know how powerful blogging is for me. It's a creative release. It's my way of feeling I'm accomplishing things and it's my way of cherishing the time I have with my family. There is nothing better than seeing my girls thumb through our yearly albums and learning about the selves they can't remember. I love the nights the girls pull the books from the shelves and beg me to read them a story from "when they were little." But I feel like I've fallen off the track. It started a couple years back when I had some computer issues that weren't resolved during what could have been my most productive blogging time (summer). I got a little behind then and feel like I've been trying to play catch up ever since. And for me, if I don't write about things right away, I feel like I lose the memory and the feelings of the events so quickly and my desire to write fades. My most recent setback happened a few weeks ago when an external drive I purchased only weeks before completely fried all of my photos [AKA memories] from 2013. Just when I was getting excited to "catch up" again and I lost it all. Easter. Egg hunts. Spring break. A spout of culinary experimentation with Thai food in which I concocted some amazing dishes I wanted to document. Including an exotic Lemongrass Basil Ice Cream and a Thai Shrimp Basil Soup [sigh]. 

I guess the good thing is that I haven't stopped taking pictures [completely] and I still have lots I could potentially write about. I just don't know how to get out of this rut/lull or whatever I'm supposed to call it. I've seen lots of my friends fall out of blogging. Life gets busy. I just thought that this was the best tool I've ever had to document life and I thought I was doing a pretty good job of keeping up. 

Is anyone out there still reading this? Have you been through the same? Do you have advice or an opinion either way? I need a pep talk people. Buelller? Anyone? Anyone?

Dear Marcela,

Dear Marcela,

I've had this picture sitting in my beauties to post for the past few months with the title Dear Marcela on it. I wanted to write you a letter and tell you how much I love you and how much I see you growing and changing. I told myself I would do so when my mind cleared at the end of the busy semester. After pulling an all nighter on Thursday to finish my end of term project, and despite the little sleep I had had, I awoke relieved that I could finally spend time with you and the family and enjoy the next couple of weeks worry-free. That morning as you sat in your first grade classroom and as I taught third graders in the same building, I received word of a horrifiying school massacre in an elementary school across our nation. I sent my third graders home as I fought back tears. And I squeezed you extra tight that day as you ran across the playground to meet me. Throughout the weekend, I did my best to carry about business. The little that I knew had my unconscious mind racing as I slept, awaking to nightmares that were the realities of other parents across the nation.

Monday arrived. I wondered what I would need to say to my students. I wondered what questions they would have. I implemented some new safety measures in my classroom. The routine of the day and a weekend having passed seemed to have helped calm the hype that I expected. My job was to comfort students and assure them of our safety even though I am not convinved we are safe.

As we arrived home from school and calls started coming in from friends and family members who watch the news, they inquired of our well-being. They had heard that a student at our school had brought a gun and ammunition to school to protect himself and his friends in case something like had happened in CT happened at our school. Suddenly I could no longer ignore what had happened in CT. The fears that had been on the back burner came to the surface and I had to face them. I am sorry you had to see me cry . . . sob. Today at school I had to answer questions like, "Mrs. Reyes, What will you do if someone kicks our classroom door down? What will we do if a bad person breaks in through the window? Mrs. Reyes, Do you know when the end of the world is?"

Marcela, the world you are growing up in is so different than the one I knew as a first or a third-grader. I didn't have to worry about lock-downs or elementary school massacres. I worried more about memorizing my multiplication facts and playing with my cabbage-patch dolls. Right now I don't know what more to say than I love you and Cecilia with all my heat. I love the third graders with which I spend every day . Five years ago as I took the job I have as an elementary school teacher, I never imagined that I would have to contemplate or answer to the students that I teach daily if I would be willing to take a bullet for them. I was more concerned with the delivery of my lessons and how to be an effective teacher. I hope and pray that our nation works together quickly to find the answers of how to make all schools a safer place.

Love you,

Mom

What I Hope My Children See . . .

I remember sitting on a little wooden stool, with a pot of food and a few utinsels on another wooden stool in a two-room little home. I was in Capitan Miranda, Paraguay. The floors of the home were cold cement and four little girls crowded around watching me and my companion, Hermana Yanquin eat . . .their eyes, hungry with desire to be eating along with us. But it was custom for the guests to eat first. That and there weren't enough plates and utensils to go around. My heart broke as I choked down the food. I was in shock and I don't think I even knew it. I don't know what my thoughts were. I just remember sobbing as I left their house. I had never seen such poverty. Such desperation. Such hunger. I couldn't believe that I would be given food before their hungry little girls could eat. And it was so little.

I remember another little eight-year-old boy named Heber who lived down the street from these four girls. He would run through the red-clay streets barefoot and what seemed carefree. He always wore a smile. But he also wore a heavy weight on his shoulders. I remember asking him one time why he couldn't attend a mid-week evening activity with the rest of the children at church. Being one of the youngest of ten or more siblings he would rise before 5 a.m. every day to take the bus to a market in a neighboring town to sell fruit until midday when he would come back and go to school in the afternoon. His evenings were spent doing homework and going to bed early so as to be able to rise and do it all again the next day--all so his family could have their daily bread.

Just a few months ago, I found myself again in Latin America. This time in Honduras. In a rented car. My husband was driving. We'd stopped to fill up with gas at a station in a tiny pueblito along the way. Two children walked up to our car, each holding a stick with nails as pegs to hold their bags of coconut water. They must have been no more than 8 and 12. But they were out on a holiday trying to make some money. They were fascinated by my two girls. Their eyes brightened when they heard them speak Spanish and there was a little exchange of conversation between them. "Hola, ¿Cómo te llamas?" Not more than a few words were exchanged.

My girls will probably not even remember the experience and are both still too young to see what I saw on the other side of the window. I saw two beautiful children who were working to support their families. Two children who are working at a very young age. They may not even have the chance to go to school. I saw two children who reminded me of the four hungry girls in Capitan Miranda, and our little happy friend Heber who worked just as hard as they. I saw children who reminded me of just how good I have had it. And just how much I have, despite thinking at times that I live in poverty. I am a schoolteacher in the lowest paying state in the nation. But I have a roof over my head. I have warm running water. I have a washer and a dryer. I have plates to eat on. And although in the last few years a few forks have disappeared out of my silverware drawer, I have plenty of untinsels with which to eat, a table to invite my friends to sit and eat with me and a heater when the rain and snow falls. I hope some day, my children will be able to see this when they go to Honduras and that they will truly understand just how good life is for them.

Where Were You?

Anyone from my parent's generation can tell you where they were when JFK was shot. For our generation, it's where they were on 09.11.01. It's been ten years since that day. And I will never forget it. I was a recently returned missionary in my first job in Lost Cabin, Wyoming. Don't ask if that place can be found on the map. I'm pretty sure it can't. It was an hour commute from my childhood home in Riverton into the middle of nowhere; my office, a desk in a temp trailer on a gas plant expansion project.


It was around 7 a.m. when the calls started coming in. Family of the engineers who were on assignment from all over the U.S. were touching base with their loved ones and telling them what had just happened in NYC. I was transferring those calls and hearing the men on my end of the call with their construction-site explitives and comments of disbelief.


The safety manager rigged an antenna on her TV she used to show safety videos to tune into the news. I logged onto cnn.com. It was a ten hour shift, but I don't think anyone got much done that day. The air was quiet. It was unreal.


That evening, I went to house/babysit for some people in our ward and spent the entire evening watching CNN and writing in my journal. I felt confused. The next few days felt like time had stopped. Our country has never been the same since.

Our children will never experience life as we did before that day. I thought about that a lot as we took the girls to the Utah Healing Field in Sandy, Utah . Marcela frolicked through the flags as Armando and I stopped to read the names on some of them. A storm blew in and there was an instant downpour that blended the tears that came down my face as I read each name on the flags. A simple name, age, occupation and few details was enough to fill my mind with the terror that brought these lives to a quick end that day: A couple who had met in their office and married a year earlier; A cook who had finally become head chef in a fancy restaurant on the top floor; a recent grad who landed his dream job in the towers just two months earlier.

Through the years I have had nightmares that I am experiencing what I saw on the news that day. I can only imagine what the people who really were there saw and felt. And all that the men and women who battle for our freedom daily experience on the front lines. I know I am just one in millions that has a very insignificant story of where I was that day, but no matter how little we are, our experiences weave a little thread into a larger scaled tapestry representing how our country has changed.
Where were you when the world stopped turning, on that September day?

Out in the yard with your wife and children or
Working on some stage in LA?
Did you stand there in shock at the site of that black smoke
rising against that blue sky?
Did you shout out in anger
In fear for your neighbor?
Or did you just sit down and cry?

Did you weep for the children
Who lost their dear loved ones?
And pray for the ones who don't know?
Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble?
And sob for the ones left below?

Did you burst out in pride
For the red white and blue?
The heroes who died just doing what they do?
Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer?
And look at yourself to what really matters?

I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day?
Teaching a class full of innocent children?
Driving down some cold interstate?

Did you feel guilty cause you're a survivor?
In a crowded room did you feel alone?
Did you call up your mother and tell her you love her?
Did you dust off that bible at home?

Did you open your eyes and hope it never happened?
Close your eyes and not go to sleep?
Did you notice the sunset the first time in ages?
Speak with some stranger on the street?
Did you lay down at night and think of tomorrow?
Go out and buy you a gun?

Did you turn off that violent old movie you're watching
And turn on "I Love Lucy" reruns?
Did you go to a church and hold hands with some stranger?
Stand in line and give your own blood?
Did you just stay home and cling tight to your family
Thank God you had somebody to love?

I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love
Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day?

Dressed in White

Through the spring and summer months we were able to see four families be sealed for eternity in the temple. I was blessed to photograph each of them after their experience and I love what I was able to see: families who love each other have the promise if they keep their covenants, they will be together forever. The peace and happiness that knowledge gives radiates in their smiles and their eyes.

The Rodriguez Family:

The Ortiz Family:


The Severiano Family:

The Hernandez Family:

Gettin' Jiggy wit Bieber

Throughout Marcela's second year of preschool my concern for her awareness and interest in pop culture began to concern me. Did four year olds really need to know about Justin Bieber? Well, apparently they do. All of the girls in Marcela's class had older siblings and it seemed that somewhere during their day at school, Justin Bieber became a focus of their conversations. She told us on several occasions that she was going to marry him. I first started by responding that by the time she was old enough to marry Justin Bieber, he'd be as old as her grandpa. She didn't believe that one for a second. Then I asked her how she could marry someone she didn't even know. That would be weird.

At the end of the year, I went with my third graders on a field trip. The bus driver that transported us to our destination pumped up the volume on the radio station and the kids sang their lungs out to the latest tunes . . . ones I'm embarrassed to say I didn't really know. As I sat there and took in their excitement and listened to the lyrics of the songs . . . I realized they didn't really know what in the world they were singing about - adult relationships - love - and other "stuff." ahem.

I realized that day that Marcela was probably just as innocent as they were singing along and falling in love with pop culture. Just as innocent as I was when I sang along to Madonna's Like a Virgin or Cindy Lauper's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun in second grade. Or just as innocent as my sixth grade crush on Jordan from New Kids on the Block, that's NKOTB for all you kids born after the nineties.

So when Marcela's Aunt Keekee gave her a Bieber bag for her birthday, I swallowed my pride and stopped trying to downplay pop culture. And I downloaded Bieber's Baby Oh to my iPod. These songs will be the melodies of her childhood. She'll get all giddy inside and turn up the radio 30 years from now when she hears them on the radio. She'll download Bieber and make her kids dance to it just like I make my girls jam out to Wilson Phillips or get jiggy wit Will Smith. So, here's me letting my girls embrace pop culture, Baby OH!



I also must add that Cecilia now comes into the kitchen dancing and says "Mommy, Baby Oh Peeeeeease!" and insists that I turn it on on my iPod. When the song finishes she begs for it over and over again.