Confessions of a Mormon Bishop - Russhillmedia.com

RUSSHILLMEDIA.COM

*******THIS POST WAS WRITTEN BY RUSS HILL*******

RUSSHILLMEDIA.COM

*****I DID NOT WRITE THIS POST*****

*****RUSS HILL WROTE THIS POST*****

****BY READING THIS YOU ARE PROMISING NOT TO THINK THAT I WROTE THIS****

****I AM NEITHER A MAN, NOR A BISHOP, SO IN NO WAY COULD I HAVE WRITTEN THIS******

******RUSS HILL*******

So, have I put enough disclaimers yet?

See, I read the below blog post and was SO MOVED by it, that I had to share it with the world. I wrote to Russ Hill and asked him if I could repost this on my blog. Apparently the world at large was also so touched by this. He wrote on his page that he had been contacted by people from all over the world about his beautiful message. So, it's likely that he has 6000 people to email back before he gets to me. If I repost it will you go click on the link to his website? 

I am going to take a chance and repost his words here, and deal with his wrath potstblogously, 

but I think he won't mind. 

I love my bishops. They have seen me through so much. 

When I read Russ Hill's thoughts on being a bishop, every thing he'd learned resounded through me.

Yup.

Yup.

Oh yeah.

Guilty.

Me.

Me.

Yup.

Etc. 

And once again I was filled with gratitude for the men who lead us through this life. 

Our bishops are our shepherds. We need to be grateful for them, pray for them, be aware of what they do for us, and try to do what they ask us to do. 

Bishops are great men. 

My uncle Wendell is one of the kindest men I have ever met ever. 

He still gets wedding invitations from families he bishoped years and years and years ago.

Anyway, getting to it finally,

here is Russ Hill's absolutely beautiful message. 

CONFESSIONS OF A MORMON BISHOP

BY RUSS HILL

RUSSHILLMEDIA.COM

I pulled into my driveway at 12:30 this morning.

I sat in the car in front of our dark house for a few minutes.  Everyone inside was asleep.  The whole neighborhood was still.  And yet my mind was racing.  So many questions.  So many emotions.  Sadness.  Hope.  Inadequacy.
Welcome to the life of a Mormon bishop.

Like pastors, priests, and clergy in other religions, those of us asked to serve as a bishop in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints spend hours behind closed doors meeting with people who allow us into the darkest corners of their lives.
They come to us for various reasons.  Because of guilt.  Because they have lost hope.  Because they have been betrayed.  Because they don’t know where else to go.  Because they feel worthless.  Because the person they are isn’t the person they want to be.  Because they have questions.  Because they have doubts.  Because they believe in a forgiving God yet feel disconnected from Him.
They come and sit in front of me.  Some hesitate.  Take a deep breath.  And grasp for courage to say out loud what they have been hiding inside for days, weeks, or years.
Others almost run in.  They spill before I sit.  They’re anxious to clear their conscience or announce their doubts.
Each one is different.
For hours every week I sit.  And listen.
I did not ask for this opportunity.  I never considered I might someday have an office in a church.  I have no professional training for this position.  I am not a scriptural scholar.  I have not walked through vineyards with robe-wearing monks.  And, if you’re wondering about vows of celibacy let me introduce you to my four kids.
All I did was answer a phone call.  Show up for a meeting.  And nod when asked if I would serve.
I don’t sometimes wonder why me.  I always wonder why me.
And yet they come.  Share their stories.  And look to me for wisdom.
I’m not sure any of them have learned from me.  But, I have learned so much in the hours I’ve sat in that office listening to them.
I have learned that we believe it is a strength to conceal weakness.
I have learned that it is easy to want others to overlook our flaws as we expect perfection in them.
I have learned that it is hardest to show compassion and grant forgiveness to those closest to us.
I have learned that while curiosity is a strength it can also be a curse.
I have learned that we are creatures of habit.
I have learned that faith is a muscle.
I have learned that it is far easier to deny deity than to deny desire.
I have learned the mystery surrounding death forces a consideration of spiritual matters.
I have learned that observance of the Sabbath recalibrates perspective and improves judgment.
I have learned that most of us bear scars from the failure, disappointment, and fear in our lives.  And, we prefer to wear long sleeves.
I have learned that to deal with life’s pain most of us choose one of the following: alcohol, drugs, pornography, or spirituality.
I have learned alcohol and drugs are the easiest path.  As long as you’re willing to never stop drinking, smoking, or swallowing.
I have learned pornography is highly addictive and has nothing to do with sexual appetites and everything to do with escape.  And that the habit is never overcome in isolation.

I have learned that we feel like a failure when we make mistakes even when we profess a belief that the purpose of this existence is to make and learn from them.
I have learned that forgiveness is the greatest gift we can offer someone.  And ourselves.
I have learned that many know about Jesus Christ but more of us could make an effort to know Him.
I have learned that the strongest among us are those with the cleanest mirrors.
I have learned that the sins of parents profoundly affect children.  And are often repeated by them.
I have learned that affection from parents profoundly affects children.
I have learned that most communication between parents and children is what psychologists call “superficial.”  Strong relationships are built on the “validating” variety.
I have learned that children desperately desire parents who listen.
I have learned that churches are not museums or catwalks for perfected saints but rather labs for sinners.
I have learned that “tolerate” and “love” are two very different verbs despite what popular culture professes.
I have learned that there’s more sadness in this world than I had realized.
I have learned there is more goodness in this world than I had realized.
I have learned that to be happy is a choice.
I have learned those preoccupied with serving others have less time to count their problems.
I have learned that a habit of one brief moment of spirituality a day can alter one’s entire direction.
I have learned that we want God to grant us space to make decisions but step in to stop others, nature, mortality, or illness from hurting us or those we love.
I have learned those who have made more mistakes have a great gift.  Empathy.  Now to the matter of searching out someone who hungers for it.
Indeed, I have learned I have much to learn.
The names of those I meet with will never be known.  Confidentiality demands I never disclose their stories.
But, late last night as I sat in my car on the driveway I decided I should compile a list of what the people I meet with are teaching me.
And, I wanted to share it.

****BY RUSS HILL
RUSSHILLMEDIA.COM 

The one where I talk about Timp and then Pioneers and eventually get to the point

I once hiked Timpanogus.
That's shorthand vernacular for "I once climbed the not that difficult but certainly steep side of Timpanogos that is not the side that gets you to the cave."
Yawn, yawn, yawn for all you Utah folk I know. I've since learned that most people in Utah climb Timpanogos abouts once a month or so, just to keep themselves regular.
I am a Timp Wimp.
For starters, I discovered in an instant that I possess an extremely severe case of Vertigo that reared its ugly newborn head as I inched shiveringly along a hellacious trick of torture inflicted upon Timp hikers by the sadistic Utah park service that you have to traverse to get to The Saddle.
Oh, what is The Saddle you ask?
WHAT is the SADDLE??!!!!
Let me just fill you in. Visually, this is the saddle. This totally awesome dude is going to show you with his camera what I inched along for an hour while trying not to plummet down that 10,000 sheer drop scree field while I gasped air in through my drastically narrowed throat while hysterically wheezing in a blinding panic attack. It was not my finest hour, coolness wise.

And as far as photographs go, here's a couple of them.

Now, THE SADDLE is flat and safe and nice and beautiful. Why would THE SADDLE be where I remember the worst of the terror? Why not that tightrope creep up along the Scree field?
Scree fields, by the way, are what the saying "the devil's playground" is orginally about.
Scree fields should die.
Well, after an hour of almost suffocating along that trail I reached THE SADDLE. I collapsed, relieved. My journey was over! No more of this silly height madness! Back to camp and a hamburgering we shall go!
Oh. Wait.
Every time I tried to get up (the saddle is not very wide. And being as it is literally A SADDLE between two peaks, the scree fields of hell dropped hundreds of feet on both sides) the aforementioned latent vertigo I mentioned (which has now become a permanent fixture of my psyche) would overcome me with dizziness and I'd have to sit back down. My uncles and mom and cousin patiently waited for me until, still dizzy, I just had to buck up. You see, it was not just a quick jaunt back to camp. It hit me like a wrecking ball that I had only just begun. I had a long long long way to go yet. Still pretty stunned, I had quite the emotional moment up there on Saddle Sue. I wasn't even to the top of the hike yet, even! I still had to reach the friggin PEAK. Watch the first 20 seconds of this video. You'll see what I mean.

And then after getting up THERE to that tiny little triangle shack (which I was informed I was not allowed to sit there and be rescued at either. This was a really bad place to discover I have a serious fear of heights.)
Oh you think the nightmare is over? Think again folks, think again.
After THE SADDLE, and the climb to the peak, I had to do EXACTLY AND I MEAN EXACTLY what these people in this next video did.  EXACTLY. I had to SURF DOWN (I mean that. I MEAN THAT! I had to stand up on my shaking legs and SURF down this scree field over the snow pack.)

The worst part was that halfway through surfing the stress and shock of the climb overcame me and my bladder mutinied. It was going to happen as sure as death and taxes. My emergency disaster plan consisted of yelling at my family to all stop surfing themselves so they could turn around and I could desperately unbuckle my overall shorts and kind of squat on a scree field where every rock seemed about to jump ship to the valley floor yonder and pee while still suffering the pretty severe aftereffects of my absurdly serious height meltdown.
Now with soaking legs, socks, shoes, and feet I continued along my way.
When we finally got to the meadow, where it was a quick dash down an easy 7 mile path back to those fantastical hamburgers I kept drooling over, my uncle had an idea. Exhausted, he did not want to go another 7 miles. He'd heard of an old trail the boy scouts used to use. It was a shortcut! Only three miles down. He knew exactly where it was. We just had to go straight off the regular path until we got to it. After I (in shorts and pee marinated legs, remember?) had trekked in agony for an interminable amount of time down through endless wild rose bushes (My legs were now doing their best to resemble a raw version of my fantasied dinner) I tentatively asked how much farther was this boyscout trail?
OH, ABOUT FOUR MORE MILES!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
This is an inside family joke. On a hike, if you EVER ask how much further, everyone will yell Only Four More Miles!
Yes, after a panic attack, a soggy humiliation attack, 14 miles straight up and down and literally no end in sight, you can imagine how delighted I was to hear this joke again : )
And now, a poem.

To finally end this tale, 
we never found the trail.

We hiked an extra ten miles before we found our way back to the car in pitch black darkness.
You want more? Well, that night after I'd climbed into bed and drifted away into oblivion, my sister woke me up by shaking me violently and hissing that I'd stolen her bed and I was actually supposed to be sleeping on the floor. I should have punched her. Instead I dropped like a lead anchor to the wood next to the bed and fell asleep three seconds later.
So....why did I tell you this story? Let's start with this painting. A painting that will make my Timpy Wimpy day look like a trip to the Bahamas.

 This is a painting of The Willie Martin Handcart companies.
If you are LDS, then I need say nothing more. If not, click that link. A very very sacred part of our church history, these incredible saints walked to Zion through snow and storms while barefoot, sick, under dressed, unsheltered, and starving. I am fascinated by every detail. It all sends chills down my spine. In every historical account of these handcart companies, the question of "WHO WAS AT FAULT HERE" is raised. I do not believe anyone was truly "at fault." I believe this was Heavenly Father's will. This was allowed to become a part of our history to prove the Mormon pioneers, to inspire us today, to make young girls who hike Timp grateful for her blessings.
This painting shows the sacrifices that were made while establishing this church on the Earth today. They froze and lost limbs and buried their children and husbands and parents. Many lost their own lives. And all did it with the powerful, sure conviction that they would do it again, that's how much they loved this gospel. My day at Timp was a walk in the park in comparison.
But I have my own trials. I may not ever come within a mile of the things these wondrous people endured, but I have my own hardships. They wondered over and over how they were going to make it through? I have many days where I wonder am I going to make it through. The reason I am writing this post in such a long and babbling rambling way is to express a thought I had earlier this week. It occurred to me why I, who to the world today might appear to be an ant of a saint next to these Goliaths of faith and courage and resilience, still can relate to them in one specific way.
I stay at home with four small children.Three are in school, one's still in diapers. One of the greatest blessings I've been given to go along with this life is the knowledge that if I take the time to get on my knees and pray every morning, my day goes so much better. It's not even a guess. The evidence of this is so staggeringly obvious that if I don't do it, I'm basically just admitting to being a glutton for punishment. But when I do pray, I'm calmer, I'm more happy, I get more done, I feel better, life is beautiful. Or at least bearable. Which brings me to my point.
I take a certain kind of medicine that has such severe side effects if you miss a pill that missing even one pill is AWFUL. To take my long long explanation down to one sentence, basically the worst effect is it gives me such crazy dreams that I wake up disoriented, foggy, and as exhausted as if I'd spent the entire night simultaneously running and weight training. It makes for a miserable day. A few weeks ago I got on my knees after such a night and couldn't even muster up the energy to make a mental ask Heavenly Father to help me with to do list. I just sat there horrified at the fact I had to get up and be a mom and do all kinds of mom and wifey things when I felt like The Hulk had whipped me around like Loki in The Avengers. In desperation I just asked Heavenly Father one thing. 
Please Heavenly Father, please help me get through this day. Please just help me keep going. 
And that was that. I lugged myself up, nailed a smile to my face, and dragged myself out the door to go do mom and wifey things. 
And I was exhausted, and I was foggy, and my head felt like two marbles were rolling around in it somewhere, but guess what. I kept going. I didn't have to stop. I did it all! Homework and scriptures and laundry and cleaning and dinner and dishes! I didn't lose it with my family, I felt Heavenly Father helping me, and my legs kept on moving. And I ended the day with as much accomplished and my spirit as comforted as if I'd just had the sunshinest day ever! 
At the end of that day I started thinking about the pioneers. How did they do it? How did they drag themselves up every day when the temperature was like, negative 50 and they had hardly any clothes and lots of them were barefoot and it was snowing and they had like, a tablespoon of flour for breakfast? How? 
I bet they got up every morning, knelt down, and said the exact same thing I did. 
Please Heavenly Father, please help me get through this day. Please just help me keep going. 
And when I decided to totally and completely WIG OUT on the mountain up there, through panic attack and vertigo and pee and what ended up being like over 18 hard miles and wild rose bushes, I am sure my family was praying the very same prayer. 
Please Heavenly Father, please help The Timp Wimp get through this day. Please just help this lunatic keep going.   
To this day I am amazed I did that hike. I know now how my family asked Heavenly Father to get me through it.
So today, my point is this. (First of all congratulations to the determined souls who have gotten this far)
Life gets freakin' hard sometimes. Up a mountain, through a storm, in the whirlwhind of a Tasmanian Devil Two year old whilst enduring crazy medicine agony, and the millions and millions of other trials we all go through, Big or small it does not matter to Heavenly Father. He loves each of us so much that He is there to help us get through everything, no matter WHAT it is.  He might not solve our problems right away, He might not take away the pain or the fatigue or the work and EVERYTHING that goes along with the journey. But there is one thing that He will never not do. And that is to help us just keep freaking going. 
Heavenly Father is the energizer bunny, times ten trillion. 
When you think you can't make it, ask. 
Often, even after we ask, It's still going to hurt, and stink, and be hard. The person you are fervently praying for might still pee their pants.You might have to sacrifice something precious to you, and live day by day through a difficult time in your life, but you've got to remember that if you ask Heavenly Father for help-
You're going to make it. Those feet of yours are going to keep on stepping. 
And that's all I've got to say about that. 
: )   
    
  

Hero who?

This man.

This is Jeffrey R. Holland. 

You know what I've always thought of when I see Elder Holland? I see a little joyful boy. "That's a guy," I'd think "who has never lost his adorable face." Twinkly blue eyes, sweet little boy smile, deeply dimpled cheeks, youthful features.... In the history of the world I bet there was never a cuter baby than Elder Holland. And in the universe there was probably never a sweeter little boy than Elder Holland. 

Then he grew up,

and this happened. 

The First Great Commandment 

That be a link up there. Click on it. Read it. Then, to complete the intended effect of having you be completely blown away,
LISTEN TO IT.

I was sitting on the couch crocheting. I was proud of myself because I had committed myself to watching all 8 hours of conference. I was doing pretty well. I was focused, listening, peaceful, totally immersed in the talks. SO immersed that I was halfway to sleeping. I was hearing all the words, but I definitely had an osmosis thing going. When Elder Holland got up to speak I grinned. "Aw." I said as I smiled down at my fuzzy yellow yarn. 

"My favorite adorable apostle" 

And he began to speak.
(I confess I up until this talk had not delved very deeply into the life and previous talks of my now hero Elder Jeff)

Within the first minute I was engrossed. There was something about this talk that just hooked me right away. More than my crochet hook even. HAHAHA. ahem. 
Two minutes in, my hands were frozen. My eyes were wide and unblinking, my entire body still in riveted attention to the screen. No words had ever entered into my soul as cleanly, deeply, and permanently as the words Elder Holland was speaking. 
When he uttered, 

"Peter, DO YOU LOVE ME?" in that voice, my entire being reverberated with the question. (Say yes, Peter! YES!!!)

Later afterwards even mentioning Elder Holland's name to anyone who had watched conference garnered an electric response. We all felt it. If I had a weak testimony before this talk began, it would have ended with my testimony ablazing like the roaring flames of a forest fire intent on swallowing the world. I literally felt like the force of his words, the power of his testimony, the strength of God's word through him had pushed me backwards to become permanently affixed 6 inches deeper into my couch, though I hadn't moved a millimeter.

No longer was Elder Holland 

the cutest little apostle you ever did see.     

This is a prophet. This is God's literal voice being spoken to us. My soul was hearing pure sacredness. 

I listened to that talk over again several times that conference. 

The power that shakes through his voice is like manna to my soul.

A little bit ago I awoke in the middle of the night. 

Anxious, afraid, paranoid. 

You can't rid yourself of those feelings at 3 am! You have to lay there and gasp for breath and fervently pray and scan the room a million times for the knife wielding intruder you know is either there, or about to be there. 

That night, I had my kindle fire next to me and I switched it on so I could go to YouTube and listen to some of my favorite talks. 

This was the very first one I listened to,

and like a tsunami, the peace and calm came over me as Elder Holland's magnificent talk rang into my ears again. For the rest of my life I will treasure this talk. I know again and again it will fill me with that fire of testimony! This is a great, great, great man. 

I urge you to follow the link and listen to the talk! 

It is breathtaking. 
Since that talk, I have scavenged the net for more talks by Elder Holland. To my blushing chagrin, Elder Holland hasn't morphed. He has always been this man. This incredible apostle of God. I just hadn't taken the time to learn it before. 
I encourage everyone to do this. 
Each talk by Elder Holland is one gallon of testimony.
 I am grateful to Elder Holland. 
In one talk, my testimony seemed to double.
In less than 30 seconds, he went from this,  

 To this : )

Or as Pinterest has so eloquently put it
('cuz Pinterest gots the low down on truth, no joke)

                   Truer words never spoken : )       

 

Die Hard. With a Testimony.

I've always known the church.

I started to write that sentence and had to go to the bathroom so I stopped at church. Then when I came back to finish that sentence I sat back down in my chair and looked at the sentence and realized it was complete. 

I've always known the church. 

I remember walking to church when I was four, maybe three, from my house in Orem just down the street. Once I was racing around the living room at a 45 degree angle because a three year old can go fast enough and gain enough momentum (especially when you have the kind of house where you can go from the living room to the kitchen and back again in a circle) to lean into the angle while you're running and suddenly I was marveling at what a freaking awesome four or three year old I was when I heard a deafening clatter which broke my concentration and turned my 45 degree angle into an entirely horizontal one. I was small so that saved me. Carpet burn hurts. 

Like this. Only two feet shorter. Less hairy. More female. 

And not leaning over a cliff like an idiot. 

 

Anyway, the clatter was-I promise this is true-the entire front window detaching from the frame and blowing into the front living room from the violent winds happening outside. I can imagine, now that I am an adult who gets to deal with three new messes every time she cleans up one, how fun this event must have been for my parents. But for my baby sister who was 1 or 2 at the time and I, this was the absolute best, most exciting, SCREAM YOUR HEAD OFF worthy moment EVER! (This was during the time when E and I would toss a blanket onto the floor, climb aboard the brand new ship and find ourselves amidst raging waves in an endless ocean. Remember how fun that was? Almost as fun as sliding down stairs in a sleeping bag. Let's be honest here, NOTHING IN THE WORLD will EVER be as fun as sliding down stairs in a sleeping bag. I may be 29 for two more months but I will indeed be doing that again one day. Most likely when I'm 95 and depressed that I may not get to see that incredible looking movie being featured in a preview on the Teevee. At first I'll be sad, but then I'll shrug, toss aside my crochet hook and 1 millionth afghan and go find my sleeping bag. Girls gotta have fun while she can.)

Where was I?

So after we left my dad behind to fix the window, we walked to church. And I got to do my 3 or 4 year old superpower thing again by leaning at a 45 degree angle, only this time it was forward walking into the wind. I was too young to notice all the modesty violations being committed by skirts being lifted above all heads. We miss so many moments of awesomeness by being too young or distracted to appreciate them. 

I was THE ONLY LIVE BABY JESUS EVER USED in the Hill Cumorah Pageant! Ever! Every other year it was a doll! If you ask my mom about it she'll tell you about the covert hand off that occurred behind the plaster mountains and how blissful I was laying in Mary's arms while being sprayed with water. Apparently The Hill Cumorah Pageant uses water misters. If you ask my dad the story he'll recount with glee how I was a 6 month old cutie wrapped in a trashbag. 

If you ask me, I will tell you that that is my favorite fact about me of all time. No joke. I really would love to have THE ONLY LIVE BABY JESUS EVER USED IN THE HILL CUMORAH PAGEANT inscribed on my headstone, and I am going to list that last wish in my final will and testament, but we'll see. 

I went to school when I was 7 with a Samoan girl who wore almost every day a black leather halter top dotted with metal spikes and frosted with a tough leather jacket. She had huge black hair, a very fierce face, and a foot and a half of height on all the other kids in my grade. I, along with everyone else, was terrified of her. Did she have teeth? Who knew. She glared a lot. 

Then one day at church when our two wards somehow got mixed up between meetings we spotted each other. This girl was kin. Religious kin. I stood frozen when she spotted me and to my utter and total astonishment I discovered she had gorgeous teeth when a gigantic grin bloomed across her face. And, I am for reals FOR REALS telling the truth, she was my friend after that and became the third grade Samoan biker Mormon girl that smiled. The fact that I looked exactly like Punky Brewster as a kid must have won her over. I wish I knew where she was, she was very very sweet as it happens.

I remember moving from Los Angeles to San Bernardino and staying in the big empty new house with my grandma and being sad that all we were going to have for dinner was a tiny hamburger patty each because everyone else had gone back down to LA to get the other stuff and we had no car. And then, the doorbell rang. So we went downstairs and opened it and I literally thought I'd been lied to my whole life and magic actually did exist on Earth in bounteous multitude because there on my porch stood a beautiful woman holding a dinner and two pies. I literally gaped at this woman. How in the heck did she know we needed food? This had to be an angel from God. Normally dressed of course, but hey, who said angels always wear white when they descend? 

(Older and wiser I of course am so grateful for the blessings of relief societies everywhere but in that moment I just thought this was a miracle. In case you hadn't guessed yet I was a little gullible and a lot stupid as a little 'un.)

I remember our first Sunday there when we got lost on the way to church. Pulled over on the side of the road peering at a map someone rolled down their window and beeped at us and beaming, invited us fellow Latter Day Saints to follow them to church. Again, my jaw dropped open. This was truly a magical town where I would be sure to find fairies and wizards and a vortex to an alternate universe soon. Then it was sweetly suggested to me that our entire families churchy attire might have tipped them off. That was an apt guess, but to this day I do not think it was the attire. No, I think these kind Samaritans knew of our plight that they could help with as soon as they glimpsed five little girls all with early 90s GINORMOUS ribbon bow clips rising like peacock feathers above their heads. 

I remember going to church in my dad's ward down in Anaheim when it was our weekend to visit and turning a brilliant shade of red when my dad inexplicably decided to get up during testimony meeting dressed in street clothes and ramble on about everything that was not anything to do with testimony meeting. And not understanding why my 14 year old sister cried all through it. 

I remember always, always, always knowing the church was and is true. For a while I thought I was not right for the church, which was a strange thing to think if I knew the church itself was true but just because pink is the prettiest color ever does not then mean I look good wearing it. (I don't. I look like I have scarlet fever.)

Fortunately, I wised up quick. 

I love my church. I've always known it, almost always loved it, and always believed it. It has brought me more joy and peace and blessings than anything else ever has, could, or would on this planet. Anything. I hope I can help as many people as possible come to know this joy and peace. If it's through laughing, fine, I got some of that. If it's through being inspired by my testimony, I'll try to have a lot of that. If it's through crying at my beautifully rendered words well, um...let me direct you to another blog that does that. 

The Nie Nie Dialogues 

There ya go, laugh here and cry there. She'll do it to you, Stephanie Nielson  will. She'll yank buckets of saline out of your eyes. 

But I hope I can express my love of the gospel here. This is the most beautiful truth of all truths, what I am endeavoring to learn and follow. It is the most priceless gift that Heavenly Father would give us here. I am so, so, so grateful to have it. 

Here's to my 17th (or so) new blog!

This one though, this one is sticking around. This one holds my heart. 

Ciao for now!

The Die Hard Mormon

(Oh yeah, I forget to say. Die Hard Mormon because it was a cool name and not taken and I very much think accurate to how I feel.)

"Noooooo, you can't take thaaaat awaaaaaaaay FROOOOOOOM MEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!"

I type sing much more beautifully then I actually sing. You're welcome.)