on being kind to the unkind

For the last few months, I’ve been working as an account specialist at a solar company in addition to working at my Deseret Book internship. It’s a good enough job, it pays pretty well, and the people in the office are nice, so despite the fact that it has absolutely nothing to do with what I want to do with my life, I feel like it’s a pretty good setup.

Most of the time.

Our company partners with several install companies throughout the country, and over the last few weeks, our communication with one such company has been strained to say the least. This is likely due to a combination of differing time zones, inefficient methods of communication, and different office cultures, but the fact of the matter is that the way the employees at our partner company address my coworkers and me is petty, rude, and snide. They refuse to answer phone calls and then send nasty emails about how we’re wasting their time. They ask us to address problems, and then complain when we do. They are condescending, insulting, and think that beginning a very rude sentence with “I don’t mean to be rude, but…” makes the rude sentence not rude. (It doesn’t.)

In the last week, this negative communication spiraled downward at such an alarmingly fast rate that I was left extremely angry, frustrated, bitter, and offended. So naturally, I directed all of these negative feelings to the faceless people who I’ve never met and who work at an office 2,000 miles away on the other side of the country.

And let me tell you something: I have been miserable all week. I had plenty of good things happen to me, but none of them meant much to be, because everything was tinged with the negativity and bitterness that I’d allowed to root up in my heart.

It wasn’t until studying the words of the prophet on Sunday that I truly realized why I felt so negative, so grumpy, so bitter, and so angry: I didn’t have an ounce of charity in my heart for the people at our partner company.

My knee-jerk reaction to this realization was, “Why should I have charity toward them? They’re the ones acting inappropriately.” And after some huffing, I calmed myself and remembered all the times people have shown me charity when I didn’t deserve it. I remembered that Christ asked His Father to forgive the very people who tortured and killed him. I remembered that employees of our partner company are just as much children of God as I am and that Christ loves them just as much as he loves me.

And my heart softened a bit.

I realized that I needed to make more room in my life for charitable feelings toward others. Especially toward the people who are rude or offensive and the people who let you down or hang you out to dry. Being bitter and angry instead of charitable and forgiving only hurts me. My reaction to rudeness or unkind behavior does nothing to change those external forces. But it does change me. And it can change me for better or for worse, depending on whether I choose to react with charity or with spite. After spending a week reacting with spite and feeling the uncomfortable repercussions of that choice, I think I’m going to go with charity from now on.

That’s not to say that it’ll be easy. I’m quick to judge, quick to be offended, and slow to forgive. These are all attributes of my being that I’m very much aware of and very much in favor of changing. But change is a slow, tedious process, so I’m going to start small.

Thus, I’ve come up with a new rule for myself. Anytime I have an unkind, judgmental, or otherwise uncharitable thought about another person, I have to replace it with a kind thought. I’ve been at this for less than 12 hours, and I’m already becoming more and more aware of how frequently I judge or become frustrated with others for silly little things. I’d barely made it out of the house before I was annoyed at a car driving five under the speed limit and then accelerating at the last minute to run a red light. And then another driver cut me off, prompting a “would you please learn how to drive and watch where you’re going” from a driver prone to very slight road rage. (That’s me, if you didn’t catch on.) Then on the train, I scrolled through social media and found myself thinking, “Was that post really necessary? Do people actually think I care about every minute detail of their lives?” And perhaps the most ridiculous of all: Once at work, I got irrationally annoyed with the author of the manuscript I’m working on because he has a tendency to use the word gnarled when describing things that just CAN’T be gnarled (hair, eyebrows, etc.) and then using the word twisted when describing a wooden staff. DIDN’T HE SEE HE WAS MISSING A GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY TO USE THE WORD CORRECTLY?? (#editorprobs)

Clearly, I’ve been very busy replacing my uncharitable thoughts with kind ones today.

And it’s only 12:37.

But the fact of the matter is that having these unkind, impatient, and generally ridiculous, now that I look back on them, thoughts about fellow children of God does nothing but make it harder for me to love them. And if I’m not actively trying to love those around me, I’m not actively trying to be like Christ, which is something I have covenanted to do and which I genuinely believe will improve my life.

So I’m going to keep replacing uncharitable thoughts with charitable ones. I’m going to be more patient and more forgiving. I’m going to put things in greater perspective and focus on what truly matters in life.

And if anybody has any guidance for me, I’d greatly appreciate it. I’m going to need all the help I can get.

and then it rained

I've got some real talk for y'all that I need to get off my chest, so I'm just going to jump in without any preamble. 

The last month or so has been hard. Really hard. It's not my job (I love it). It's not my roommates (I love them). It's not my ward (it's awesome). It's no external force. It's just me. 

My struggles have all been completely internal, and oftentimes that's when struggles are most difficult to deal with. Because even though there is really nothing "wrong," so to speak, something isn't right. And that may make exactly zero sense to you, but it's reality for me. Depression, anxiety, fear, plummeting self-esteem, loneliness, unexplainable anger, body image issues, physical and mental exhaustion—you name it, I've been there in the last 30 days. And it was eating away at me. I felt so numb and lost and confused and hurt, and I had no idea why. I was losing my sense of self, I didn't know what I believed anymore, and, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I felt myself losing hope. Giving up and accepting a miserable existence seemed easier than taking my life back.

And then it rained.

My roommate and I went on a nighttime run in the pouring rain. And I felt alive like I haven't in a really, really long time. I took my hair out of my ponytail and let it fly around me, frizzy and soaked and wild. I stopped and gleefully splashed through every puddle we encountered. I couldn't stop smiling.

And while we ran, I found that how fast I was going or how far I went didn't matter. And it didn't matter that I should probably shed a few pounds. It didn't matter I'm getting paid minimum wage to work harder than I've ever worked in my life. It didn't matter that I'm not as smart or pretty or talented or athletic as other girls. It didn't matter that my life isn't perfect and neither am I.

All that mattered was the pavement (and puddles) beneath my feet and the rain pouring down on me. All that mattered was that I felt alive and whole.

Upon getting back to the apartment, we spontaneously jumped into the pool fully clothed. I then proceeded to float lazily on my back a la Danielle de Barbarac, do water ballet, prove to be the least graceful "mermaid" in existence (no surprise there), and continue to feel alive.

When we got too cold, we moved to the hot tub. And while I enjoyed the wonderfully peculiar experience of warm water engulfing my body and cold rain splashing on my face, I thought about a moment just before jumping into the pool. Erica had run into the apartment to put her phone away, and I found myself alone in the courtyard. I was suddenly overwhelmed by an indescribable feeling of love and joy and acceptance. It was that deeply rooted kind of joy that doesn't come from anything that the world has to offer and that can't be expressed in words by even the most eloquent of speakers. I didn't think that my heart had enough room to contain it, and I lifted my face up to the sky in hopes that it would help me hold this sudden rush of completion.

I remembered a weary prayer I'd uttered a few days before in which I'd told my Heavenly Father that I wasn't even sure if He was listening. I told Him that I didn't know if I had faith. I simply asked him for help. That was it. That's all I felt capable of communicating to the Divine.

I never thought that help would come in the form of chilly summertime rain.

But it did.

I feel so incredibly cheesy saying this, but the rain was very much a Hilary Duff-esque cleansing experience for me. It was as if the heavy feelings I've been carrying around just washed away. I now feel renewed, rejuvenated, and refreshed. I've been reminded of beautiful truths I'd forgotten about, and I feel hopeful about tomorrow and every day after that. My problems and demons haven't gone away—not even the more torrential of downpours could accomplish that—but I'm now so much more confident in my abilities to handle the trials and struggles in my life. And that's enough for me.



I left my window open a crack that night so that I could hear the gentle dripping of the rain. God may have given Noah the sign of a rainbow to show His love and support, but He gave me the rain. And rain will now forever be a reminder that I'm not alone, I'm should never give up, and I am loved.

more than just a body

Soon after Christianity was established in Corinth, the new converts wrote to Paul, concerned about the matter of women covering their hair when in public. Christian men who came from a Jewish background found uncovered hair to be extremely inappropriate, as Jewish customs dictate that a woman is not to leave her hair uncovered while in public. Those from a Gentile background, however, did not share this belief, and Gentile women therefore found nothing wrong with going out and about with their hair showing.

The Church was young and fragile, not yet strengthened by years of unification under the umbrella of Christianity, and Paul was afraid that this matter of debate could tear the Church in Corinth apart. His response to their concern was that it was the woman's duty to cover her hair. In answer to a previous concern of the Corinthians, Paul made mention that when making decisions in "gray areas" (those areas of debate within the Church that don't have a definitive commandment associated with them), members of the Church should consult the Holy Ghost and their own conscience, but also keep in mind the effect their actions would have on others. It can be assumed that his suggestion that women cover their hair fell into this second category—to those of Jewish background, a woman's hair was considered extremely sensual, and by covering her hair, a woman would make men who converted from Judaism more comfortable.


After discussing this section of 1 Corinthians this morning, my New Testament professor related this issue to one that a modern audience could more easily understand: current LDS standards of modesty. He showed examples of questions BYU students have asked regarding exactly what "knee-length" is, threw out the hot topic of yoga pants and leggings, and then then posed a question: If Paul were to come into our class today, would he tell the women that it is their duty to wear modest clothes so that they would protect the thoughts of men?

He waited. This was clearly not a rhetorical question. After a few tense moments of silence and a request for somebody to speak up—nobody seemed to want to be the person to tackle this touchy subject—I raised my hand and shared my thoughts.

The short version of my answer is No. I could theoretically have just said no and been done with it, but I didn't, because this is a subject that I personally feel needs to be addressed more often.

The point of dressing modestly is NOT to protect the thoughts of men. And, in my humble opinion, men and women who believe that are missing the point of modesty. A woman who believes that she should dress modestly solely to encourage clean-mindedness from males can be covered from head to toe in clothes Grandma would approve of and still conduct herself in a very immodest way.

Modesty isn't a list of what types of clothing are appropriate to wear. Modesty also isn't a list of body parts that can show without sending men into a highly-sexualized frenzy. Modesty is an attitude of respect for God, for the body He made for you, and for yourself as a whole. And it's that attitude that should dictate what you find appropriate to wear and what you find inappropriate to wear. It's as simple as that.

Implying—or some cases, outright stating—that the point of modesty is to control the thoughts of men is objectifying, demeaning, and disrespectful.

It sends the message that a woman is no more than her body and that her body is the thing that men will use to determine her worth. It says that if a woman shows a little more skin, men would see her only as a sexual object and BAM! No more respect. No more being treated like a normal human being. No more acknowledgement of my value as an accomplished person with values.

I'm not okay with those messages. A woman's value does not lie in her body and the way she chooses to cover it. And every woman has the agency to choose how she finds it appropriate to treat and cover her body. Everybody might not agree with a woman's personal dress standards, but nobody can dispute that she has the right to choose for herself.


As soon as I finished sharing my thoughts on modesty, several male hands shot up into the air. When called upon, the guy sitting in front of me was quick to rebut. "I disagree," he said forcefully. "Your agency ends where my agency begins." He then began to go on a tirade about how it is in fact a woman's duty to protect the thoughts of men and that they shouldn't wear yoga pants or tight clothes or low cut shirts, because it makes it too hard for men to have clean thoughts. One of his comrades went as far as to say that the main purpose behind modesty is to protect the minds of men and keep their sexuality in check.

NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.

I sat there slightly flabbergasted, quite literally biting my tongue and restraining myself from smacking the guy in front of my upside the head. (I never would have done it, but I'll admit that I kind of wanted to.) 

Let's get something straight here: I do not believe that women are responsible for making sure that men keep their thoughts in line. That being said, I do promote dressing modestly, and I'm glad that dressing modestly makes it easier for them. BUT I am no more responsible for their thoughts toward me than they are for choosing my wardrobe. Nobody would think to go up to a man wearing a tight t-shirt that shows off his biceps and abs and say, "Excuse me, but could you please wear a looser fitting shirt? Girls could be viewing you as not but a sexual object." There is clearly a double standard working here, and it can often feel like men like the ones who argued my points want to claim a monopoly on being carnally minded.

Because let's get something else straight here: Women have sexual thoughts, too. Yep, that's right. The fairer sex is capable of thinking about sex. Maybe it's not in the same way as men and it's not as frequent or as strong or as graphic, but it's still possible. Yet nobody goes around telling men to dress in a way that helps women keep their thoughts clean.

As a woman, I obviously don't know how the mind of a man works. I've never experienced thinking like a man, so I don't claim to be an expert (or even well-informed, for that matter) on the subject. But what I can testify to is that I know a lot of amazing, respectful, disciplined men. And I have ever bit of confidence that men can choose to banish inappropriate thoughts if they find that sort of thought cleansing important. I'm not going to say it's easy, because I don't know if it is or isn't. But I have confidence and faith and trust in the capabilities of men. It's true that some choose not to live up to all that they can be, but I'm not about to judge the entire gender based on the follies of those outliers.

It is for this reason that I take great issue to the first refutation that "[a woman's] agency ends where [a man's] begins." A man does not have to like the type of wardrobe that a woman chooses, but that does not give him any right to choose a stopping point for her agency. In addition, that statement and comments this classmate made imply to me that he does not believe a male's ability to keep his thoughts in line or to simply look away (when possible) when presented with a woman who is dressed in a way that might be found to be provocative. By claiming that immodestly dressed women eliminate a man's agency, he did nothing but a disservice to himself and to men in general.

Now, dear reader, I hope that you don't interpret these thoughts as an attack on men or an effort to place blame or find fault. I also hope you don't come away thinking that I don't believe in the principle of modesty in appearance and deed or that I don't think it's important to be a good example to those around us. Because I believe quite strongly in modesty, and I believe that being a modest person endows one with great strength.

What I hope I conveyed is that modesty is about more than just a person's body. It's about attitude and intention. My personal experiences with learning about modesty and discovering how I can best show respect to my Creator and to myself in the way that I dress and act has led me to believe that understanding the principles behind modest dress is nearly as important as the way we choose to practice modesty.

I don't dress the way I do for men. I don't dress the way I do for my friends. I don't dress the way I do for anybody but myself and my Heavenly Father.

I choose modesty because I feel more comfortable with who I am when I wear modest clothes. I choose modesty because I am so grateful to have a body, and treating it with respect is one way I can show my thanks to God.

I choose modesty because I am more than just a body.

in times of anguish

There are so many things I should be doing right now: writing a hymn (it's for a final. long story), writing a paper, studying for a test, sleeping. 

But I'm not doing those things, because my gut has told me that I need to write something. And I'm not sure what that is.

I lied. It's not my gut telling me that—it's the Holy Ghost, the Spirit of the Lord. I strongly believe in the power of the Spirit to guide and prompt me in my daily life. I believe that's why I'm writing this right now instead of sleeping or finishing final papers or studying for a test. 

I also believe that the Spirit can confirm truth and comfort us in times of anguish. Our Church gives its members the unique opportunity to speak in church from time to time, and last Sunday I was asked to speak. I shared an experience I once had during a time in my life when I felt alone and confused. One particular night, all the feelings of loneliness and abandonment I'd been trying to suppress came flooding back all at once, and I was beside myself with grief and pain and confusion. I remember sinking to my knees and begging the Lord to help me understand and to show me where I'd hidden my faith, because I certainly couldn't find it. Over and over I asked if He was even listening to me. I felt so small, so insignificant, and so certain that the Creator of the universe couldn't possibly care about little old me in my time of need when there were so many other people in the world who needed (and probably deserved) His attention more than I did. But when my words died out and my tears dried, I wrote the following entry in my journal: 

“Tonight I prayed one of my most desperately heartfelt prayers ever. I felt so alone and overwhelmed, and I felt myself going to that negative, scary place where everything always goes wrong, and I always end up hurt and alone. I asked for peace, guidance, and the ability to trust in God’s will and accept whatever he sends my way. I asked to know if He was there. And as I prayed—even as I cried and begged and questioned—I felt a wave of calm. It’s hard to describe. But it was as though the desperation and the out-of-control feelings that turned me into a blubbering, hysterical mess were just wiped away…That’s a prayer answered. And I know more answers will come in time.” 

My fears in that moment were wiped away and replaced with the calm knowledge that my Father in Heaven knew me and loved me and cared desperately about me. And though those same fears have resurfaced many times since that night, each time I can now calm myself with the reassurance that He's there and that He loves me. 

There is an almighty being who watches out for you and loves you even if you don't believe in Him. He doesn't care who you are or what you do, His love is unconditional and never ending. And should you choose to address him, he will be listening. 

I'm not quite sure why the Spirit prompted me to share this experience tonight, but I know that for some reason or another, it was the right thing to do. If nothing else, it was yet another reminder to myself to never forget that wave of calm when everything feels as though it's falling apart. 

to act

In my younger years, I fancied myself a bit of a budding actor. This all kicked off in the fifth grade when I landed the coveted role of Mrs. Claus in the annual fifth grade Christmas musical. This was also, coincidentally, the high point of my "acting career." 

I dabbled with speech and drama my first year of middle school. At some point—I genuinely don't remember how old I was when this occurred—I attended a week-long drama day camp at a local park whose pinnacle was a cheesy little production of The Tortoise and the Hare (or some fable-y type play) put on for our parents. In high school I had a teeny, tiny role in the drama department's less-than-sub-par performance of Inherit the Wind. (Having sat through many rehearsals, I can vouch that it is a very boring play. But the rights to the play were free, and we needed very few costumes/props, and we were a brand new school with zero money.)

It was at that point that I realized I am far too uptight, introverted, and resistant to let loose for the theater. And that was okay. 

But whether I (or anybody else for that matter) ever perform on a stage or behind a camera, we are all actors. We all act. My good friend Merriam-Webster (sorry not sorry to be that person) states quite simply that the word act means "the doing of a thing" or "the process of doing." It doesn't get much clearer than that, folks. We all act. 

The scriptures state that because Christ redeemed us, people are "free forever, knowing good from evil; to act for themselves and not to be acted upon." (2 Nephi 2:26) The whole concept of acting versus being acted upon has been one on my mind lately, mostly, I think, because I'm trying to take more control of my life and my actions. 

It's really easy for me to let life happen to me, if that makes sense. I'm one to get frustrated about a situation but not do anything to fix it. I tend to stick to the sidelines and let other people do the acting. This is true to the extent that my good friend and I have a running joke that my memoir should be called Life in the Sidelines.  In short, I'm really, really good at being acted upon. 

And that's really, really bad, which is why I'm fighting my natural tendency to let life happen. I don't want to look back someday and wonder what would have happened if I just did more instead of letting things happen. And if that's not motivation enough, all I have to do is remember that one of the reasons Christ suffered and died for me is so that I could have the freedom and the power to make my own choices and choose my own actions. If He was willing to suffer and bleed and die for that, then I think it's worth making acting for myself a priority. 

My campaign against can't is one of my steps to becoming an agent in my life instead of a bystander. Eliminating as much self-doubt as I can and granting myself the opportunity to try (and maybe fail) is in itself a way that I'm consciously choosing to act instead of being acted upon.

To be honest, the very things that made me unfit for the stage (especially the introvertedness) are the same things that make taking charge and acting very difficult for me. Even when I know exactly what I want, trying to find the courage to act—to do something about it—is often a very long, anxiety-ridden process. But it's something I'm working on, one wobbly baby step at a time. And when I say baby steps, I really mean baby steps—some of the "challenges" I've tackled lately include approaching a stranger to have a casual conversation, signing up for a 10K, and inviting an acquaintance-but-not-quite-friend over to a movie night. 

And as much as I hatehatehate change, I know it's time for some pretty major ones. I'm at a point on the road of life that has alternate roads branching off in countless directions—I have so many options to learn and grown and change that will all be wasted if I don't take some responsibility and control of my life. 

The time to be acted upon is passed, and the time to act is upon me. So I guess I'm going to have to buck up, and taking some wise pearls of wisdom from Nike, just do it. 

Introvertedness, anxiety, and uptightness, and all.

this christmas

Yesterday I had the opportunity to go to Salt Lake City for the First Presidency's Christmas Devotional. While I've visited Temple Square at Christmastime and been inside the Conference Center many times, I'd never been inside the Conference Center at Christmastime. In a word, it was beautiful. I know that decorations and lights aren't the most important part of Christmas, but having such a beautiful, homey environment definitely set the mood for the devotional. It just felt like Christmas.

While I loved the devotional wholeheartedly, my favorite part of the visit was actually a little Christmas concert we attended in the assembly hall after the devotional. To be quite blunt, the choir that sang wasn't exceptionally talented. This was especially evident due to the fact that I'd just heard angelic music from the well-trained, well-rehearsed Mormon Tabernacle Choir. But I didn't mind the off-key notes, the untrained voices, or the garbled harmonies one single bit.

Because in addition to the fact that most of the women in the choir were tiny, adorable elderly ladies with puffy white hair, the spirit of Christmas was evident with every syllable—even the ones that were off key. This choir may not be winning any choral awards anytime soon, but if there were an award for filling a room with the love and peace and joy that accompanies the Christmas season, they'd have my vote. When they sang "O Holy Night," my soul swelled with joy because I could feel of the love they each had for their Savior and the reverence with which they treat Him. Yes, they sang the wrong notes; yes the accompanist wasn't quite on the beat; and yes, there was more than one scratchy, worn out voice that could be heard over the rest of the choir, but their performance was beautiful.

This is what Christmas is about. It's about sharing the love you have for the Savior. It's not how well your home is decorated or how melodically you can sing Christmas hymns or how perfect of a gift you find for everybody on your list. Christmas is love. It's peace, joy, and forgiveness. This is a time of the year to take a step back and acknowledge the beauty that life has to offer. It's a time to fall to your knees in gratitude for the care and the patience you are shown by a loving God. It's a time to sing your testimony to the world, regardless of what your voice sounds like. 

These are two beautiful videos that exemplify what Christmas is truly about. I invite you to watch them and to ponder how you can keep the true spirit of Christmas in your heart at all times. I know that keeping Christ the center of this season—and the center of your life—will do nothing but increase the amount of peace, contentment, and love that you feel in your life.

He always knows

Sometimes I just wish I could unzip my heart and dump its contents into my computer or into my journal. Because regardless of how many thousands of words there are in the English language, I occasionally feel that there are none that I can string together that sufficiently explain how I feel. Maybe some feelings just can't be translated into words, but it's frustrating because it's those feelings—the ones that fill my heart to bursting with peace and joy and understanding, the ones that make me believe that maybe I can figure out this strange thing called life—that I want to shout from the mountaintops. 

But how do I explain the way it feels when, after weeks of halfhearted prayer, I kneel down to sincerely open my heart to God, begging for forgiveness for not putting Him first and imploring Him to help me find peace of mind about my future? 

How do I explain the overwhelming feelings of love and understanding when He provides me with three hours' worth of personalized guidance the very next day?

How do I explain the pure joy that fills my heart while I laugh hysterically alone in my room after reading an email from a friend who is thousands of miles away?

How do I explain the pride and the love I have for my younger brothers, who are growing up to be such kindhearted, talented, and upstanding young men?

How do I explain the deeply rooted feelings of gratitude for the multitude of blessings I have in my life, especially when many of those are undeserved?

How do I explain those quiet moments of contentment that occur late at night in the dim lighting of my bedroom after reading the scriptures and my patriarchal blessing?

How do I explain the wave of spirit that rushes over me after weeks of stressing about what to do with my life post-graduation and says yes, be true to your heart; follow your dreams.

How do I explain the wonder and awe I feel watching a small child learn something new or embrace a total stranger with overwhelming love?

I can't. I can't explain any of that in a way that does it even a semblance of justice.

The only thing I can conclude from all these unanswered questions is that there are life experiences too beautiful and too precious to be able to fully express using written language. Luckily there is the language of the spirit—a language that doesn't always need letters or words or sentences. This language pierces hearts across time and space and speaks using joy and love and peace. It speaks to the heart and the mind simultaneously and allows my whole being to be filled with warmth. 

And I'm grateful that even when I haven't the words to express the deepest thoughts of my heart, my Father in Heaven still knows what I mean. He knows of the thoughts and the feelings that I try so desperately to transmit to Him with my faltering tongue and hesitant words. He knows despite my weakness and my failings and my pride. Even when I can't speak through my tears or can't find a single word worthy of His ear, He knows.

He always knows.

sometimes the answer is no

From the time that I was a small child, I was taught that Heavenly Father answers prayers. And I believe that. 

But as I've grown older, I've come to realize just how faulty and skewed my understanding of this concept was. You see, I equated Heavenly Father answering my prayers to me getting exactly what I wanted. 

This is not always the case. 

In fact, in my experience, it is hardly ever the case. 

I naively and foolishly believed that if I really had faith, Heavenly Father would let me have my way every time. That's what "answering my prayers" meant, right? After all, why wouldn't he grant me a righteous desire if I prayed truly believing that He would listen and answer me? Why would He deny me something good if I had faith that He could make it happen?

But then I came to college and entered adulthood and experienced the things that you experience when you're too young to be cynical but not old enough to have the advantage of extensive life experiences. And all of a sudden some of the the things I wanted to stay in my life were disappearing and the things I wanted to be gone were unpacking their bags and settling in for a nice long stay.

And it was reality, regardless of how much faith I had or how hard I prayed that things would be different.  

But in spite of having so many things—good, righteous, wholesome, worthwhile things—denied me, I still believe 100 percent that Heavenly Father answers my prayers. 

It's just that sometimes the answer is no. 

And when the answer is no, it can be heartbreaking. It hurts, and it's confusing, and you're sometimes left asking why. Why would a loving God say no when you really believed in Him and when it's a worthwhile thing you're asking for? 

I'll be the first to admit that it's tempting to get angry (or at least very frustrated) when the answer isn't what you were hoping for. Because you believed so sincerely. And you wanted that thing so very badly. But I also know that anger doesn't solve problems and that it will only make the answer harder to accept. 

And at the end of the day, I know that Heavenly Father does things for a reason. Do I always know those reasons? No. In fact, I almost never do. Most of the time I just ask to be able to accept the fact that I don't understand. 

But I know that I have a loving God. And I know he wouldn't say no when I ask for something good unless there were a reason. Unless I weren't ready, or I needed to learn something, or He had something better in store for me down the road. He knows what's best for me. He can see the end from the beginning when I can barely see three inches in front of me. He can see that some of the things I want that seem so perfect and so right are actually not what will bring me the most happiness in life.

I was never promised that God would answer all my prayers how I wanted and when I wanted. I was just promised they'd be answered. And they are.

But sometimes the answer is no.