The Cure for Overly-personal Confessions

I have found that the cure for overly-personal confessions is to make sure I write in my journal first, before I decide to open a new blog posting with whatever happens to be banging around in my mind, though it has its drawbacks. The confession that comes after journaling often feels censored, forced, and a bit lackluster. I wish I knew how to find a happy medium--ah, the great quandry of my life...a happy medium.

Today's confession was going to involve something about singing and crying and trying to pull it together, first in front of about 500 people and then again the next day in front of about 20. But I journaled that all out and found that, minus the emotional commentary, all that was left was one embarrassing situation of almost falling on my way back to my seat because my legs were shaking so badly, and then another of losing it right before I was set to sing in front of a small group (which, I should add, is more terrifying to me than singing to a hall full of people). Terribly uninteresting.

So, instead, I'm going to confess to something else. Something less...emotional.

In the mornings, after I run, I go down into the basement to stretch and lift weights. Usually I'll put on the classical station (since it's still early and I don't want to wake the roommates above) and listen to a few pieces while I go through my usual routine.

At home, one of our Thanksgiving traditions is to watch White Christmas or Holiday Inn. This year it was White Christmas' turn. However, what everyone at home forgets is that not only do I turn in fairly early when I'm in DC, but that when I'm in California, I'm still on DC time for the first few days. Therefore, if you turn on a movie at 9:00 p.m. it's almost guaranteed I'll be asleep in the first five minutes. This year I made it through 30 minutes before I gave up, and Mom still leaves me exactly where I fall, even at age 27. I woke up at 3 a.m. with a numb butt and shoulder in an empty living room. I'm pretty sure I stepped on Tom (who was sleeping on a mattress on my bedroom floor) as I climbed into bed. Sorry Tommy.

ANYWAY, all that to say that I decided the only way I was ever going to finish the movie was to watch it in 15 minute increments in the mornings while I stretch. Today I got to my favorite dance number in the whole movie: Abraham. It's also one of my favorite numbers in Holiday Inn, but for entirely different reasons. Vera-Ellen is one of those dancers who blows my mind. I'm not sure I'm going to have time to get through Holiday Inn in the same way, so if anyone is interested in joining me Thursday night to get it in one shot, I think that's when I'm going to do it. Just let me know. :)

I know, lame confession this week, but I really really love White Christmas and have loved having it as a little morning treat for the last week. I can't wait for Holiday Inn. Fred Astaire...mmmm...

Thanksgiving happiness

For as long as I can remember, Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday. Growing up, we would get up early and get a couple dozen donuts on our way to the practice fields at our local junior high. Around 8 a.m. the ward would start to gather for the turkey bowl. The game was traditionally between the young men and the elder's quorum/high priests, but it was also a family affair. The kids would play their own game off to the side and the moms would sit and chat and eat donuts and drink juice (except for my mom...she always stayed home to cook for the masses). I'm sure it comes as no shock to find out that I complained rather loudly each year that I wasn't allowed to play; I was a fast runner and a great receiver, but alas, my gender was against me. By the time I was a teenager, though, we didn't have enough young men to field a team and so they needed me (suckers). I was proud to be one of the players who came home caked in mud with a few bruises underneath it all. There was something wonderful about stepping into that hot shower, knowing that when I emerged Thanksgiving dinner was not too far away.

Turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, rolls, stuffing, green bean casserole, cherry pineapple dessert...it was heaven at Grandma's and Grandpa's. If it was chilly enough, we even got a fire in the fireplace. As evening fell we would all eventually wake from our respective food comas and be ready for pie. Mom would ask Grandpa every year, "Apple or cherry?" to which he would reply "Yes." It never got old. And then we would watch either White Christmas or Holiday Inn.

My grandparents have passed on and the house has emptied out. The traditions have changed and I don't always get to go home for Thanksgiving, but my love for the holiday has not changed. I love Thanksgiving for many reasons, but mostly because it feels so good to be grateful. This year I feel particularly so. Last week for FHE we had a "Cornucopia of Gratitude" night, I think it was dubbed. As I considered all that I was grateful for, I felt myself become a bit emotional. A lot has happened this year. I have experienced some significant trials, but the blessings at the end have been even more significant. I've seen miracles happen in my life and in others' lives. As I have considered these things over the last week I have felt how much my Heavenly Father truly does love me and all of His children.

I make a list every Thanksgiving. It tends to be pretty comprehensive. I won't share everything here, but I thought I'd give you some of the highlights. They aren't listed in any particular order. Enjoy!

• Cookies. There's just something about them that make me so happy. I am grateful for the nights where there are cookies, good friends, some cold milk, and an empty kitchen floor. It can set any day right.
• Blustery days. There's something comforting and a little romantic about going out into the elements while bundled up in a big, chunky sweater. I love it when the wind whips my hair around my eyes and blows some leaves across my path. I feel in those moments God lets me know He's alive.
• Blankets. Combined with a fire and a good book (or conversation, or cookie, or movie), this might be one of the greatest joys of life.
• Good books. See above.
• Good conversation. The best usually come from reading good books.
• Good music. Playing, listening, attending...I'm grateful for it all.
• The beach. I love the feeling of the sand in my toes. I even like the feeling of sand in my teeth when I'm eating a hot dog post-body surfing. I love watching the sunset as we're all huddled around the bonfire (even if the green flash is a myth). I love the wind and the waves.
• My family. We're big, we're sort of loud, and we really love each other. I'm grateful for whatever pre-earth process determined my placement with the Bradshaws.
• The gospel. It binds my family together; it binds my friends and me together; it gives life meaning.
• The temple. I am grateful for the binding ordinances performed there. I am grateful for the peace that is found there. I am grateful God has given us a place on earth where He dwells, a place we can come if we are worthy.
• Dove soap. It smells so good.
• My kindred spirits. You know who you are. My life is made rich because of you. I am grateful for the moments when we don't have to say anything and it's okay. I am grateful for the times we laugh so hard and so long that our sides hurt, our eyes leak, and the room fills with an almost tangible energy. I am grateful for the roll of toilet paper you keep in your car for teary conversations. I am grateful for P&P, for Taco Tuesdays, for Bad Poetry Night, for Last Call, for freezing morning runs and misheard statements (I wonder if jaw straps are uncomfortable...), for DDR and bats, for dancing in hurricane rain, for Baltic states, for Baja Fresh and homemade guacamole, for the reenactment of the tiny towel story at 2 a.m., for piano duets, for all the "oh gosh" moments, for "do as I'm doing," for Collin Golightly, for bad novels and even worse film adaptations, for not having to preface anything, and for all things confessional. I am grateful you love me in spite of me. I am grateful you let me love you.
• I am grateful for you. I really am. I probably don't say it enough but to all who render service, to all who let me serve them, to those who take time to just sit and chat, who forgive me and let me grow, who trust me to forgive and let you grow...you have my love and my gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Mock-worthy Moment #1

Phobia

n. : a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it. Failure to avoid can lead to mock-worthy moments.

A friend once told me he was surprised at how many phobias I have. Do I not look like a girl who is afraid of things? Well, surprise. I've got a list. They may not be so evident because as I've gotten older I tend to avoid these situations. In my younger years I didn't think far enough ahead to keep myself out of them. Or I didn't have an exit plan. Or I let myself get bullied in spite of myself. [sigh] At any rate, it has given my family plenty of mock-worthy moments...some of them immortalized in photographs.

Mock-worthy Moment #1: me + projectile objects = ?

Now, I realize that a fear of projectile objects is not irrational, so it may not fully qualify as a "phobia," but it does prevent me from participating in certain events. Projectile objects for me really only include baseballs/softballs and paintballs. I believe it began when we were playing softball as a family for FHE. Tom was 6, which means I was 8. Gary was up to bat--I think he was 14-- and he hit a line drive down third base. POW! Right into Tom's eye. I have this very vivid memory of Tom getting hit and going down. I was by first base, so I ran across the field as fast as I could. By the time I got over to him, his eye was swollen shut. Watching the healing process was enough to make me shy of line-drives and pop flies for the rest of my life.

But that's not the story I came to tell you.

This story involves the family Christmas gift of 1998. I was 18. Mom and Dad decided to buy the five or six children still at home our own paintball guns. Our back gate opens up into a canyon, a perfect playing field for paintball (unless the neighbors decide to call the cops on us...) and Mom and Dad were pretty excited to find a family gift they were sure everyone would like. I had played paintball with my brothers a few times before this gift, but, unbeknownst to my parents, it had quickly become one "sport" I do not like. Why? My brothers insist on shooting me in the bum every time we play. They think those bruises are the funniest, not only on me but on each other. Nevermind the unintended injuries that have resulted from bad aim...but I digress. I opened my gun and tried to match the enthusiasm of my brothers but deep down I was dreading the pressure that would inevitably come to actually use it. The boys could not have been happier, though. They immediately set to souping up their guns; they turned up the pressure for maximum bruisage and played every chance they got. My gun turned into the "spare gun" for any friends who came over to play. Unfortunately for our guests, it was also the red-headed-step-child gun since it sat in my closet, neglected. It really was the girl gun.

The following year, we headed up to my Uncle's property in Aguanga, CA (pretty much in the middle of nowhere) for Thanksgiving dinner. The boys were so excited: open fields, crisp air, and hours before Thanksgiving dinner would be ready. Bruce's family was even in town and he joined us for the day. I dutifully brought my gun (they wouldn't let me out of the house without it) but had absolutely no intention of playing. My statement of intent not to play was followed by much cajoling and coaxing:

"Julie, you'll have so much fun." Wrong. I will not have fun.

"Julie, it won't be any fun without you." Read: It's more fun to have an easy target that we know will scream on impact.

"Julie, we'll play president and you can be the president. We'll protect you." Being president means I don't even get a gun and I'm the only target in the game. Um, no thanks.

When the cajoling and coaxing didn't work, they used force. And when I say "they," I really just mean Mom. I had intended on staying at the house to hang out with Grandma, but I was informed by my mother that this was a "family" outing and that I had to come and play. Next thing I knew I was being thrust into the van. (I didn't see anyone suiting Mom up with a gun....)

So there I was, sitting out in a field, not dressed nearly warm enough, holding a gun I had no intention of firing (not because I didn't want to nail one of my brothers in the hoo-haw but because it would draw attention to my location). My team didn't even bother including me in the battle plans except to point to the most massive bush on our side and suggest I park it over there, since I had made it clear I had no intention of actually making myself visible to the enemy.

Dad didn't play paintball very often but he was a darn good shot; having been raised in podunk mining towns, he hunted deer every season for their family's winter meat. All he needed was the top of someone's head to poke up, and BAM! they were a goner. Dad and Bruce were on opposite teams--father against oldest son--and they spent the entire game gunning for one another. It didn't take me long to get bored and I eventually sat back and considered life I guess. I actually have no idea what I was thinking about. All I know is that I had been there for a while and really had to go to the bathroom and was wondering how much longer I would have to wait when I eventually became aware of a rustling in the bushes; I thought it was Bruce, who was on my team, so I didn't give it much thought. Then I saw Bruce sneak from one bush to another on the opposite end of the field. I immediately tensed; we were the only ones left on our team so I knew whoever was rustling the bushes was one of the "enemy." The boys always said that surrender was an option, but I knew their style; the offer to surrender was almost always followed by an "accidental" shot fired and "innocent" claims of a hair trigger. I listened and waited to shoot close range at whichever of my brothers dared sneak up on me. The rustling eventually ceased, however, and I determined that whoever had been there had spotted Bruce and changed direction. I relaxed-- but too soon. It was not a brother but rather my dad who popped up from behind the bush, looking fierce, his gun pointed right at my forehead.

No one could have predicted my reaction, not even me. I had intended to shoot whoever poked their head over my bush, channeling my fight response, but it failed me, as did my flight response. Instead I dropped my gun and literally burst into tears as I screamed at the top of my lungs, for the entire valley to hear, "No, Daddy! Please don't shoot me!" It was unnecessary; he was in the process of lowering his gun anyway. He immediately threw his arms around me, assuring me as he laughed sympathetically that he would never shoot me. He told me later he felt terrible that he had scared me so badly. Unfortunately, though, all of my brothers heard my tearful cry; their howling laughter echoed all the way through the valley. That plea has haunted me for years since in the form of mock-high voices at even the slightest hint of cowardice: "No, Daddy, please don't shoot me!" At least it replaced "Freshens my breath!" I'm not sure which I prefer...

[sigh] Sometimes it's really tough being a girl in a family full of boys.

More mock-worthy moments to come..