My New Favorite Temple Prep Resource

If I haven’t blogged in awhile, it’s probably because I’ve been reading my brains out to achieve the one resolution I never seem to keep — read one book a week, or at least 100 a year. The past few months have been crazy due to this ridiculous resolution, which I’ve kind of given up on. Usually, I stick to one book and one book only until said one book is finished. Last month, however, I somehow managed to find myself trapped between two self-help books, a classic as thick as my face, a book by Tad Callister, and the lovely book pictured below. It was one of only two that I finished this last month, and I want to take a short post to share it with you.

When I started this book, I was under the erroneous assumption that it was only for people who have just gone through the temple. I thought it was a temple prep book. It seems like it, as it tends to feel pretty basic in parts. Truth is that it is a temple prep book, but it’s one for both the new temple goer and the seasoned temple goer alike.

I guess you could say this book was a bit of a wake up call for me, as it’s been easy to lull into that state where you’re complacent about your covenants and about your temple attendance. I think we all, at some point, slip into the experience of going through the temple as fast as we can and not treating it like something new and special every time. I vividly remember how much every word meant to me when I first went through. They were a BIG DEAL, these promises and blessings I was making and hearing, and I wanted to make completely sure that I was ready to make them. Nowadays, if I’m not careful, I’ll sit through a session without taking the time to seriously consider it. This book was a very good reminder for me that I need to constantly be taking my temple trips seriously. How do I learn and progress, otherwise?

This book was filled with really fantastic insights that made me sit back and vocally go, “Huh.” a few times. My favorite books are books that teach me something new, and this book did that while also being super edifying. It has great examples of symbolism, historic temple ceremonies, and even greater perspective as to why we say and do what we say and do in the temple. I found myself wanting to take this with me to the temple to study it, in fact. Not sure I could get away with sneaking it in my temple dress…but I’ll certainly be putting it near and in my temple bag!

If your temple attendance has felt uninspiring lately, check this book out! I’ll even let you borrow it.

Looking for other ways to prepare for your temple trip? I’ve got a few ideas

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My Belated New Year’s Goals

Usually, I’m all over the New Year’s Eve stuff. I’ll write long lists of what I accomplished in the past year, do a review on my blog, and think of all of my worst moments and mentally let them go in the seconds counting down to midnight. One year, I spent the last hour of my New Year’s Eve writing a page filled with close to 100 resolutions. Can’t say I wasn’t ambitious, right? This year was a little bit different, however. I partied hard, slept in harder, and woke up with the realization that I hadn’t done a thing to prepare for the new year. Not only that, but I woke up with the horror of realizing that the last song I listened to in 2015 was “Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae).” Oh heavens. Please forgive me, better than the average human’s musical tastes. (That was a subtle and accurate, though arrogant, nod to the quality of my Spotify playlists, in case you’re interested.)

All of that being said, new years are important to me. I’m a significantly imperfect person, and it always feels refreshing to have a symbolic chance to start over and be better, to let go of all of the things that were sad or hard the year before and try again. I’ve thought long and hard about what I want the theme of my year to be, and the three words I always come back to are authentic, open, and brave. I want to be open with others and myself, honest about who I am, confident and unafraid. I went through a period as a teenager where I hated and struggled with who I was. There were few things I liked about myself, and when I didn’t get validation from people I looked up to, I caged myself in and hid both the worst and best parts of myself. I was terrified of being laughed at or rejected for who I was, so I forced myself to be emotionless and personalityless. It’s taken years to undo the damage that caused. I still have to work on not hiding myself every day.

At the end of 2016, I want to be able to say that that is completely behind me and that I am unashamedly me, authentic with whomever I’m with and more afraid of hiding who I am than losing the good opinions of other people.

I am imperfect and weak and funny and smart and my hair is pretty okay and I can be fun to be around when I stop worrying about what other people think. Here’s to a year when I can fully embrace all of that.

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To the Girls Who Love Showing Off Their Bodies on Social Media

Dear girls,

As someone who follows you on Facebook, sees your pictures on Instagram, and notices the things you pin on the rare occasions that I’m on Pinterest, I can say that I kind of know who you are.

You’re smart and you’re capable. You love baking and cooking and sharing good recipes. You’re young mothers, new wives, struggling college students, happily single, or fighting to get by every day. You read and you sing, you work out and you travel. You like weird music or popular TV shows. You’re rodeo queens, political think tanks, expert hairdressers, champions, outstanding photographers, and you can do things with watercolors that just enchant me. You’re the next J.K. Rowlings, Elizabeth Cady Stantons, and Clara Bartons. You’re my friends and girls I want to be friends with.

You are all of these things, and yet, as someone who follows you, sees you, and notices you, I sometimes get a little discouraged at some of the things you’re posting.

You take lots of selfies and share them. I only mind that a little. I’m very guilty of taking selfies, too. You wear nice clothes and put on nice makeup and have nice hair, and yeah, I sometimes compare, but I don’t hold it against you. What I notice goes beyond that. Some of you have stopped sharing your travel experiences, your adventures, and your life with me and instead share images of your face that fill the whole frame and have captions like: “Spain is just beautiful this time of the year! #lovinit.” You’ve stopped sharing inspirational quote posters that you’ve found on Pinterest, ones that speak to everyone, regardless of size or color, and instead share a picture of your lips and your eyelashes with something like “Live life to the fullest! Dream big!” beneath it. And it’s not a huge deal, but it’s very indicative of a bigger issue I see girls of all backgrounds struggling with right now: the need to be physically admired.

This letter is for all of us, but it’s particularly for the girl who has built a virtual art museum around her anatomy. It’s for the girl who obsesses over the slope of her chest and distance between her hips. It’s for the girl who wants attention, good, bad, or any, who treats her cleavage like it’s a Monet, who treats herself like a philanthropist by taking pictures of her butt in workout pants and telling other women, “If you want it, work for it.” It’s for the girl who publicizes her body parts on Instagram to a crowd of bored, stimulated strangers, all who harmonize together with comments such as:

“You’re perfect”
“Where do you live?”
“That is gorgeous”
“Very beautifuuuuull, my looooovvvee!!”
“Can I marry you I would love you forever”
“The things I would do”

I think we women are both ignoring and creating a serious societal problem, one we’ve gotten away with blaming on other people for a long time, and it’s about time we had some girl talk about what we are doing with our bodies.

We live in a world that consumes, uses, and sells the Victoria Secret body like its merchandise. I know you’ve seen it — curved hips, narrow waist, full lips, exposed parts. The girl inside it may have an expressive, beautiful face, but the greedy businessmen who sell her body mostly care that we see her from her lips down. She’s on every television, every movie, every magazine, and every book that lines the shelves of low culture. People love her and buy sandwiches, video games, and movie tickets because of her. People pay money to watch her move, as if she’s a prize race horse set to win the Triple Crown.

But people also hate her and write angry letters about her.They tell Carl’s Jr. to please, for the sake of their kids, get rid of her. Hers is the body that has indirectly launched a thousand ships — Dove’s Campaign for Real Beauty, “big is beautiful,” and “I won’t be no stick figure, silicone Barbie doll, so if that’s what you’re into, then go ‘head and move along” among them. Because of the toll she has taken on our society and self-esteem, we now tell girls that their bodies do not limit nor define them. We tell Hollywood that it is unrealistic to ask square pegs to fit into circular holes. We see right through and shame magazines that use Photoshop on their cover girls. We’re just beginning, as a society, to talk about the damage pornifying women’s bodies does to us all. We are changing the way our culture talks about and views women one step at a time, and so far, it’s been mostly good.

The sad truth, however, is that the objectified woman we’ve been force-fed all these years still clings more tightly to our self-worth than we may think. She’s leaked onto Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. She hides in forums called “Fitness” or “Thinspiration.” She is worshiped by us, emulated by us, and pornified, yes, by us. She doesn’t look tan and fit and good in a bikini all the time, either.

She looks just like us.

Us, the small and lanky and thin and curvy. Us, the overweight and narrow and big-boned and emaciated. She lurks behind us girls who claim to be all about natural beauty and self-celebration but still haven’t mustered the guts to post a selfie that isn’t altered. Us, the women who tell each other that our bodies are no definition of who we are, and yet, plaster our social media with them.

We women are objectifying women as much as, if not more than Hollywood and society. Don’t believe me? Just look at your Instagram.

Many of you have somehow amassed thousands of followers that come to watch as you cut your body into little square-shaped pieces and demand, like a consumed Victor Frankenstein, that your creation be seen. Many of you push the edge, fed by the hunger to have friends and family and love interests tell you three significant words: “You look good.” You are billboardizing yourself with your selfies, turn yourself into a virtual Mona Lisa with a story behind that smile that no one cares anything about because they’re too busy staring at your body. Because you’re doing this, other girls are doing it, and you’re giving the world permission to keep treating us all like we’re only as good as the skin we expose and the bodies we show off.

Frankly, I’m sick and tired of wanting to be admired for who I am, but feeling like that’s not even important to us women as a whole anymore. We seem to be driven, not by the need to be heard, but the need to be seen. We claim that we don’t want to be “just another pretty face,” and yet we advertise ourselves as if that’s what we are. We are not the helpless victims in a world attacking women’s bodies, not when we obsess over the body of our athletic neighbor, not when we collect pictures of body parts that we call inspiration, not when we take more pride in how our behinds look in photographs than how we make the world a better place, and not when we justify all of that by saying “it’s my body, and I’ll do what I want with it.” Don’t tell me we are blameless when we don’t care how much we know, how hard we work, or how big we can dream; don’t say that when we put no importance on how kind we are to people who are not kind to us, or how brave we are, and instead put all of our attention into how hot we look in photos.

Dear girls who love showing off your bodies on social media, you are more than your body! For the sake of the rest of us and the future of us, stop acting like you aren’t.

I don’t want to see your pretty face all of the time. I want to see how you’re living your life. I don’t want to see those ripped abs and tight thighs you’re wallpapering your Pinterest account with in the hopes that one day they’ll be yours. I want to see you accept yourself and work for a better version of your own body because you want to feel good. I don’t want to see your butt in yoga pants. I want to see you kicking butt on that test or that trial or that insecurity you struggle with. I don’t want to see you change the angle of your photographs. I want to see you change the world.

You are not something to be consumed by other people. You are a woman, and your beauty is not surface deep. So please. Take that selfie. Don’t let this letter stop you. Please. Celebrate your body. Don’t think I’m asking you not to. Just remember that no selfie can capture your actual self, something that goes far beyond surface beauty and isn’t an it but a who. Celebrate her! Love her! Don’t let anybody else forget that she, not the package she comes in, is worthy of praise.

Dear girls, please stop objectifying us.
Start standing up for us.


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What a Small Idaho Town & Disney Characters Taught Me About Christmas

When I was a little girl, my parents would pack all of us into our winter coats and then into our family Suburban to drive around town and look at Christmas lights. It became a sort of tradition for us. We’d drive up to the benches with the biggest houses, decked in wreaths and bows and hosting little candles in every window; then we’d wind our way down city streets where the Christmas displays were smaller, but often more outlandish and colorful. To us, every lit up house was something magical.

I remember one house in  particular that was the most magical of all of them. It was a ranch house that sat just north of historical Preston, Idaho. We’d drive for about 45 minutes from our house to get to it, but you could see it well before you got to it. Not only was it covered in Christmas lights that stretched high into the trees surrounding it, but the house was covered in Disney characters.

Stationed on every patch of ground around that house were wooden characters that had been meticulously cut, painted, and propped up to form scenes straight from movies. Simba, Rafiki, Nala, and Scar stood in one corner of the yard, and Belle and the Beast spun around on a mechanized wheel in the other. The Grinch was on the roof of the house, his wooden arm creaking up and down to crack a whip against his poor counterfeit reindeer, while little wooden puppies traveled along a metal conveyor into the clutches of Horace and Jasper in the front yard. Everywhere you looked, there was a different character doing a different thing — Toy Story, Lilo and Stitch, Cinderella, you name it! I’d roll down my window and lean far out of the car as we moved around the circle drive so I could see every single character. It was the most magical thing I’d ever experienced.

As time passed, we went on Christmas light trips less. I grew older and reached that age where Christmas seems less magical and more meaningless, where the noise and the chaos and the gift giving aren’t what they used to be and the wonder of childhood is replaced by the weight of reality. Last year, like some sad, parallel symbolism, the lights and wooden cutouts came down for good at that house in Preston. The expense of having them up every year for 25 years was too much. Even having not visited for years, hearing the news broke my heart a little. Reality, it seemed, had spared very little of the magic from childhood.

This year, Christmas has been extra noisy and chaotic and hard. I’ve been exhausted every day for the past three weeks, as my job requires a lot of customer interaction and problem solving, most of that being really stressful. I’ve ached to feel as excited about Christmas as I used to feel, and it’s been hard. Last night, after a particularly taxing day at work, my good friend Mariel invited me to go to an Institute class in Preston with her. As we drove down center street in Preston, I slowly relaxed and fell a little in love with the way the trees were wrapped in lights.”There’s this whole street with lights strung on both sides. We should walk down it after class,” Mariel said, turning down a back road as she spoke.Curled up in the passenger seat and reminded of all of the trips up here we used to take as a family, I turned to her to tell her about that old house with the Disney characters, how much it had meant. My attention was stolen by a wooden cutout of Shrek and Fiona that stood in somebody’s lawn.Oh, wow. It’s like that house! I thought with a smile, on the brink of pointing it out to Mariel. Before I could, we came to a stop sign at the street just west of that house. What I saw almost brought tears to my eyes.Stretched out for one block on both sides of the road were the Disney characters I had been so enraptured with as a child. They were scattered so that each yard down the street held one or two groups of characters. New ones had been added since I last saw them, like Frozen and The Princess and the Frog characters. They all moved and creaked or stood still beneath a long line of lights that had been wrapped from telephone pole to tree to telephone pole all the way down the block. It was incredible.

After Institute, Mariel and I bought hot cocoa and walked down both sides of the street and I was struck again by the magic of it all. This small street had come together (I don’t know why or how) to keep a tradition alive. They’d offered their lawns and homes, and I’d imagine they’d done so because they loved that house just as much as I did as a child. It had gone from being the tradition of one to the tradition of many, and I was blown away by the care they had taken to make that street just as magical. While we were walking, a car drove slowly down the road and I could hear children giggling from the rolled down windows. It was the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in awhile.

Last night, I felt an overwhelming amount of love for the people on that street. This neighborhood had revived something I thought I’d never see again, something that brought me so much joy. It was an act of service that humbled me and even now causes tears to fill my eyes. As Mariel and I walked down that street and listened to creaking wood and buzzing lights, I felt an overwhelming contentment with the simplicity of it, with what Christmas means, which is, quite simply, Christlike love. Service. Coming together. Being together.

The magic of Christmas is not found in things, it’s found in people and it’s found in service. Thank you, Preston, for reminding me of that so forcefully last night.

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Confessions of a Girl Who Sucks at Vulnerability

Whenever I open my phone and scroll through Facebook, I run into this same sponsored post by The North Face (I guess that’s what FB’s algorithm does to you when you drool over Thermoball jackets all day long). It’s a black and white image of a grisly older man who has ice in his beard, the edge of a beanie darting across the middle of his forehead, and a jacket collar lifted high around his ears. It doesn’t really speak to me, but that ad inspires me every time I see it. I never click on it, and I don’t know what the man’s supposed to be doing (or selling) in this ad, but what always catches my attention is the caption that accompanies it:

“The truest version of ourselves lies far beyond comfort’s perimeter.”

Isn’t that a beauty of a line.

I used to think that I subscribed to this line, that I lived every corner of my life according to the idea in this line. Why else, after all, would I have a public blog with my feelings all over it? Why else would I go skydiving with a bunch of strangers for my 21st birthday, read a poem about an ex to a crowd of 500 people, and say yes to being a Relief Society teacher, even though speaking in front of people often leaves me in shambles? It’s because I rock at getting out of my comfort zone, right? Wellllllll…wrong. Every time I see this ad, I feel the pain of falling short, of not living by it at all.

I genuinely suck at vulnerability and getting out of my comfort zone. I’ve struggled with that for most of my life and I still do. It’s about time that I own up to it.

When I was a kid, I was cripplingly shy. I talk about that a lot because that is something I dealt with for a good 13 years of my life. Add in some social anxiety, major introversion, and fear of falling short and you have one chaotic mess of a person that was (and occasionally still is) me. It was very hard for me to open up to anyone as a child, and one of the few times I finally got myself to do it, I was badly hurt by a good friend. So I locked myself up and shut myself in. My comfort zone became a very tight, very confining circle, and I’ve spent years crafting habits and responses that “protect” me in this circle. To name a few, I:

a) dilute how I really feel about situations and current event topics in conversations to avoid getting emotional or getting criticized
b) avoid parties or activities where I won’t know more than one person
c) don’t pry into other peoples’ lives too much for fear that I’ll start caring too much for them, and when they leave, it will hurt a lot
d) keep my emotional distance from people at work so I can seem more professional and in control
e) do my favorite activities, like hiking and writing and even listening to music, alone rather than involving someone else, because in these situations, I’m at my most vulnerable, and if they left, these things would hurt
f) stifle the parts of my personality that are spontaneous and carefree in an attempt to not draw any attention to myself and, in extension, my weaknesses
g) avoid getting to know people whose intelligence intimidates me for fear that I’ll fall short
h) (lately) avoid written/text correspondences whenever possible to avoid the moment when someone else drifts out of my life because I’m “better in writing than real life,” which has everything to do with items a, d, f, and g in this list and nothing to do with the fact that it may be true

And there you have it. That is me. I am a pretty piece of work, aren’t I.

I have made an automaton out of myself in an attempt to not be hurt, and it is a terribly lonely way to live. Sure, I’ve made breakthroughs. Sure, there are people who get the full, undiluted me, but it is very difficult to get to that point with everybody. The truth, I’ve found, is that I don’t live outside of my comfort zone at all. I’m not vulnerable. I put on a facade of icy coolness so that people don’t have to see that, underneath it all, I am deeply emotional and sensitive and caring. Those things, historically, have seemed like weaknesses to me. I’m coming to understand that, as much as those things hurt, they are the greatest strengths I have. Without them, connectivity in this world cannot exist.

I suck at vulnerability and connectivity, and I don’t want to. In an effort to be genuinely authentic and real and open, and in an effort to see where I can improve, I want getting out of that comfort zone to be my focus this next year. The truest version of myself is someone I want to discover and embrace. I don’t want to hide her for fear of getting hurt. The real truth is that hiding is where we hurt the most.

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My Name’s Ari, and I’m Human

Hi. My name’s Ari, and I’m human.

In high school, my best friend said my teeth made me look like a chipmunk and I’ve been somewhat self-conscious of them ever since. I love harmonizing with the radio in my car, but the idea of singing karaoke terrifies me. I get attached to people easily. I hate November, because I tend to get my heart broken in November. I’m kind of impatient and need to be in control of situations to feel comfortable. I have road mild annoyance and sometimes road rage. If I’m feeling particularly introverted, I can convince myself out of doing anything. Last fall, I had a major anxiety attack, and this fall, I learned that anxiety can come back. If it’s not obvious at this point, I stink at dating. I push people away a lot. One of my worst fears is that I disappoint people, that I’m not what they expect, or that I’m better in writing. I can’t enjoy football, no matter how hard I try. I’ve tripped while going upstairs twice this month. I often feel lonely. I’ve got a rebellious streak in me. If I’m not careful, I’m “that Mormon” who raises her hand in class to correct the teacher’s doctrine/tone. Growing up, I was painfully shy and, as a result, have this complex where I worry I’ll always be overlooked. I’m too sensitive. I really like being right. Grammar mistakes throw me into a tizzy, especially when they’re my own. People can annoy me really easily if I’m not careful. I’m a worry wart. And I’m often more selfish than any person should be.

Hi, my name’s Ari. I’m flawed, but I’m real.

Having broken away from my social media for a bit, I thought it was important to mention that.

Love: Me

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Now That You’ve Unfriended Half of Facebook, Here’s a Slight Suggestion: STOP IT!

Last Thursday, news broke of an update to Church policy in regards to same-sex couples, their children, and baptism. Unless you are committed enough to be living a totally off-the-grid lifestyle in the deep woods with your organic herb garden and wolf dog, you heard about it. I’m not going to talk about it. At least, not the issue directly. Truth is, I wasn’t going to talk about anything related to it at all, until I turned on my computer today to see that, like Coriantumr and Shiz at the end of the book of Ether, some of you are still virtually going at each other’s throats.

Really, guys?

This is what I want to talk about. Not the issue, not the ‘why’, not the questions of what will happen…no. What I want to talk about is this trend I see among members and ex-members that disgusts me. It disgusts me because it carves an even deeper divide between us, and it disgusts me because it is one of the greatest obstacles that I know of standing in the way of spreading the Gospel of Jesus Christ. That trend is being scathing, rude, bitter, vitriolic, and unsympathetic on the Internet. If that sounds like a description of your social media activity, congratulations. You’re part of the problem.

For four days, my newsfeeds have consisted of members of the church attacking and belittling each other and church leadership with comments like, “Disagree? JUST GET OUT.” or “I’m LDS and this infuriates me, and if you’re a member of the church who’s okay with this, you’re deluded.” For four days, my newsfeeds have been filled with friends who have left the church pulling every Reddit, John Dehlin/Kate Kelly commentary, NYT story, scripture, and ex-Mormon blog they can find out of a hat to shove in members’ faces and say, “See! The church is filled with bigots and you’re all idiots for staying.” For four whole days, I have seen nothing but hatred and hurt feelings all around, because everybody on the whole entire planet feels like they are an expert on this subject. Probably the worst of it is to see both sides taking the words of Jesus Christ and shoving it in each others’ faces to say, “SEE! WHAT JESUS DO YOU BELIEVE IN?! ‘CAUSE YOU’RE WRONG.”

With as much force as I can muster to put across in a blog post, GET OFF YOUR COMPUTER AND STOP THIS. NOW.

Do we honestly think that we will solve any issue by being monsters on the Internet? Do we? Because lately, I get the impression that people seem to think that is the case. If this whole issue stems from concern for the feelings and wellbeing of our brothers and sisters, then how dare we and why dare we try to fix it by going at each other? Is this building up the Kingdom of God? Is this sharing the joy that can be found from the Gospel? Absolutely not. Is this the appropriate way to handle issues you have with the church you’ve left? Is being horrible or rude or sarcastic to people who deeply love and believe in the gospel going to win you any Reddit points? Probably, but decent human points? Absolutely not.Internet shaming and contention are not Christlike. Period. Nor do these things help you become a better person. I address ex-Mormons and current Mormons here, because frankly, there are a lot of people in both groups that need to sit down and reevaluate what they are doing. Courage is unflinchingly standing up for what you believe. Courage is not belittling and mocking other people while you do it. This weekend, I’ve seen members belittling and mocking members, ex-members belittling and mocking members, and members belittling and mocking ex-members. It’s left a terribly bad taste in my mouth.

To members: the point of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is not kicking people out. The point of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is not antagonizing people, hating people, or heatedly debating with people. It isn’t the church’s stance on gay marriage, the church’s stance on abortion, or how you happen to feel about any of those things. The WHOLE point is Jesus Christ. Have we forgotten this? Have we forgotten Him? A lot of us seem pretty convinced that we know what Jesus would say or how He would act, but in the process, very few of us remember how He expects us to act as His representatives. If you are pushing other people away from Him, or using His words as a means to shame other people, you are not getting who He was and is. No, Christ did not condone sin. Yes, Christ turned the tables of the money-changers in the temple. But do you know what Christ also did? He loved everyone and He invited everyone to come unto Him. I don’t really think you can take it upon yourself to “turn the tables of the money-changers” without loving your brothers/sisters, then claim you’re being Christlike. Being Christlike takes courage and it takes love. Together. All of us could do better at standing up for what we believe and loving our brothers and sisters in the process. For some of us, loving others takes the most courage.To ex-members: I know many of you are steaming mad right now, or maybe gleeful. I know this because I see all of the mass resignation party flyers you’re disseminating on the Internet and I see the scathing and snide comments you’re making on Internet threads. Some of you have taken it upon yourselves to tear down and ridicule your Facebook friends for their testimonies. Some of you have chosen to be bitter and antagonistic about beliefs that, at one point, you once adored. There are many of you that I love, and it hurts to see the things you have said. Some of you still believe in Jesus Christ. I ask you, would He condone the way you are treating members of the church? Would He smile and pat you on the back for calling your member friends bigots and telling them they’re delusional? If you think so, you don’t know Him either. If you don’t believe in Him anymore, at least believe that all people, regardless of what they believe, should be treated with respect. That is true no matter what church or organization you belong to. And I’m sorry, but being bitter and sarcastic about the church or church leadership does not become you. Bitterness, in fact, becomes no one.

Guys, life is too short for us to spend our time arguing all of the time. Not only that, but if you believe in the Gospel of Jesus Christ, you should realize that no contentment or joy will be found from doing anything less than trying to become like Him and move toward Him. At a time when our beliefs are constantly challenged and ridiculed, let’s take the moral high ground and defend them with dignity and respect. Let’s not get involved with online threads that will turn us into angry, embittered people. Let’s not destroy our friendships simply because we disagree. Let’s all try harder to be more decent. We are all brothers and sisters, and the Savior atoned for all of us. Every single one of us. Let’s allow our social media and conversations to reflect that, okay?

We cannot be good representatives of Christ if we’re too busy tearing down people He has atoned for.

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Patience is a Virtue I Struggle to Have

Today at work, I made my boss’s boss’s boss really angry. I made a mistake. It was a $200 mistake, and the biggest one I’ve made since I started. The worst part of it all was that it was a mistake that I don’t make. 

The truth of the matter is that I am good at my job. I am very good. When I make mistakes, I never make them again. I listen intently. I pay attention to areas where I can improve, and in areas of high risk, I’m extra cautious. That’s why today’s mistake was pretty humiliating. I authorized something that I shouldn’t have, not because I didn’t know, not because I hadn’t been trained to be careful, but because, in a moment of sheer impatience, I went ahead and did something about it. It was an item on my to-do list, and I wanted it gone.

It was a mistake that I don’t make. Or so I thought.

The truth is that even in moments when we think we’re doing well or we’ve convinced ourselves that we’re on the right track, those small weaknesses we leave unchecked can derail us. Impatience is one of them for me.

Lately, I’ve been so impatient for a lot of things to happen in my life. I’m impatient to get to snow season so that I can break out my snowboard. I’m impatient for my year mark at my job to come, because I’ve been considering making a big(ish) move, and I want to give what I promised before then. I’m impatient about my relationships with other people. Mostly, I’m impatient with myself, because frankly, I’ve been screwing up a lot lately. I’m going through a lot of hard, internal battles that I’ve never confronted but have needed to fight for a very long time, battles over paradigms and attitudes that aren’t healthy or productive. And enduring that has been lonely and difficult.

“Endure to the end” is perhaps the hardest challenge of this life. Having the patience to endure is the first step.You know what’s the first thing that comes to my mind when I think about endurance, specifically in the context of Christ asking us to endure? The Atonement. How could anyone endure that? How could anyone have the patience to get through that? Perhaps that’s the challenge with the Atonement — if I had to do it, I would give up. I’d never be able to make it. Maybe that’s why I struggle to comprehend it.

I don’t want to mess up my whole life in moments of impatience. Sometimes I feel I’ve done that. How do you endure? Tell me. It’s a mystery I long to solve in my own life. 

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Thoughts on the Atonement

Last Sunday, wrapped up in the coziest blanket I own, I watched a film called The Infinite Gift. It’s a short movie about a seminary class that learns what the Atonement means for them when their teacher presents the class with a rather striking object lesson. You maybe have heard about the doughnut analogy, where a teacher gives a doughnut to everybody in the class, but only when one of their classmates has done ten push ups each to pay for it. This movie puts visuals to that analogy, and I have to say, it left me a little at loss for words.

I won’t spoil it for you, but the ultimate message of the film is left looming there at the end of it as the teacher asks, “What does the Atonement mean to you? You show what it means to you by the way you live every day of your life.” (Paraphrased.)

As I watched the credits file onto the screen, I found myself thinking, Ari, you really don’t know how to internalize the Atonement every day, do you. 

If the Atonement meant everything to me, I’d find reason to hope every day of my life. If the Atonement meant everything to me, I would try harder to love more freely and more often. If the Atonement meant everything to me, I would never forget, at my lowest, loneliest moments, that someone knows what I’m going through and loves me.

The Atonement means so much to me, but does it mean everything? I don’t think I’ve gotten to the point in my life where it does. That’s a humbling and saddening thing to realize.

In the film, there are kids who immediately eat up their doughnuts and laugh and cheer because they don’t understand what it took to pay for them. There are also kids who let it sit on their desks, looking dejected as they watch their classmate do the push ups. I suspect that, running with the analogy, I’m somewhere in between those two kids. I don’t fully comprehend the gift I’ve been given, or some days, I don’t recognize that I’ve been given anything. I, in fact, go through life so overwhelmed by it that I don’t pause to think that maybe, just maybe the only thing I need to do is trust that if the Lord would atone for me, things will work out for me. He didn’t atone for me so that I would be unhappy. Quite the opposite, actually. How often do I recognize that?

As the teacher in the film asks, what does the Atonement mean to me? It means that at the end of the day, things will be okay. It means that even though I am nothing, I am loved by He who created everything. It means that there is hope, even when I fail to grasp that there is.

The Atonement means that I am free to change, to be better, and even though that is its own battle, I’m grateful to have it. 

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I don’t want to be human.


I don’t want to be human. At least, not in the way we’ve made being human.

We’ve made being human a combination of tasks to do, money to earn, bills to pay, pain to feel, and noise to drown in. Being human is living 90% of an existence in four walls. Being human is sitting at a desk for eight hours a day. Being human is driving from here to there habitually, eating things we shouldn’t, coexisting with what we hate. Being human is conditioning ourselves to disconnect and disengage and repress.

We die realizing we’ve killed ourselves with ourselves. I don’t want to leave Earth realizing that I’ve done that.

Sometimes, when I let myself, I slip into places I’ve never been and I know what to do to not die by these things we say make us human: run. My desk fades away, my concerns quiet, and all I can see and feel inside me are jagged peaks drenched with snow. Music is playing and I am skiing, sometimes snowboarding, leaving tracks in clouds of powder, or sometimes just standing there among the trees, gasping at the immensity of it all, this space I never knew was tucked beneath my skin.

I open my bones, and there are mountains inside them. Desert, snow-capped peaks, woods, rocks, mountains. Endangered things. Delicate things. Things I want to touch and breathe in every day, and things I ache about, because I know they’re out there somewhere.

I don’t want to be human. I want to be wilderness. I want there to be no seam, no separation, no “how’s life?” “it’s going” in between me and untouched places.

Stitched together like that, I’d imagine I could live without fear or worry. Maybe one day I’ll try.

*This word vomit brought to you by a half hour of free time and Ari’s overwhelming wanderlust. 

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