Running Away From Your Problems Redux

So one time, I was thinking about going on a mission.

I knew a couple of people who were very dear to me but were really struggling. There wasn't much I could do to help, but both Older Sister and Best Friend Boy were on missions, and I could see how through their missions, they were able to help others with similar struggles. I'd never wanted to serve a mission, but I was suddenly overcome with a desire to go so that I could help people.

I wanted to finish school before looking into going on a mission (because I was pretty sure that if I quit school, I would never find it in me to go back). So I had a few years to think about whether to go. I did mention it in passing in a letter to Best Friend Boy, who responded some weeks later by saying that I should pray about it to see if that's what Heavenly Father wanted for me.

I was really annoyed by this. I was planning to pray about it, just not yet. It was a few years away!

However, being so annoyed, I decided I would pray right then and there, just so that I could write back to Best Friend Boy and let him know that I had. I was the only one home, so I knelt right down in the living room, and—

It was one of the most unmistakable prayers I've prayed in my life. I asked if I should go on a mission after graduation. I felt sickish and headache-ish. Well, what about right now? Still sickish and headache-ish.

Lovely. I asked a couple other questions, and I immediately felt pushed in a direction that didn't entirely make sense to me but that felt right. So be it.

A couple of years passed, and I found myself deeply entrenched in the path that had felt right. Only everything was going terribly. I was so frustrated and wondered if I'd interpreted what I'd felt correctly. Maybe I just wanted to walk down this path so badly that I'd manufactured feelings of confirmation. Madam President seemed to think so. Shortly before we were called to the Relief Society presidency, her serious boyfriend broke up with her. She hadn't been able to get over how badly she wanted to get back together with him until getting a blessing from a General Authority that she knew. The blessing laid out a different path for her life than she'd hoped. Then, ta-da, she got a job and got married and everything worked for her, and she was happy! She gave me the General Authority's number and recommended that I get a blessing from him, too. I knew she was hoping that my blessing, too, would tell me that I'd been wrong about the direction that my life was going to go and that I should do something else. I sat on the number for a year and then I decided to find out for myself.

The blessing was lovely, but it was also frustrating. It basically said that I could do what I want. It cast no aspersions on the path I'd been walking, which meant I was free to keep walking it if I so chose. Before the blessing, the General Authority also told me that I wouldn't get an answer before making a decision but that I should choose and then start moving forward with the choice. Then I'd get my answer.

Once again, lovely, but how to choose? I went straight from his home to a semi-solo trip where I pondered my options. I wrote a list of pros and cons and I studied and I thought.

In the end, I decided that whatever had (or hadn't) happened since then, there was a reason why I stayed, and it would be better not to throw that away. Once again, I choose to stay, and I'm glad I did. The following year was incredible. So many of the things that frustrated me righted themselves. Things were really looking up. In fact, the reason I felt I should stay seemed to be finally coming to fruition.

In December of that incredible year, I was stepping into the shower when I suddenly had a thought: "If you wanted to go on a mission, this thing will wait for you."

A third time: lovely. But I was honest: I didn't want to go on a mission now. Things were finally going well for me. Once again, I chose to stay.

I never felt like it was a mistake to stay. The thought was fleeting, anyway—not persistent the way important thoughts tend to be. However, over the next six months, my life got wild. So many things went wrong, and my reason for staying eluded me yet again. My eyes turned toward a mission once more, but it didn't feel right. I told my bishop as much shortly before he extended the calling of Relief Society president to me.

Everything was hunky-dory for a few months. Then came an Interpersonal Crisis that was literally one of my worst nightmares.

The great thing about the Interpersonal Crisis was that it eliminated one of the things I would have felt I was missing out on by going on a mission. Ah-ha! Almost immediately I began to wonder if now, at last, this was the time to go. Almost everything else in my life was going wrong, too, so it seemed like it was all screaming that I had nothing to lose by leaving. I thought about it, then talked to my bishop, then set a date to make a decision.

The date rolled around, and...found me recovering from appendicitis. Whoops. Obviously not a good time to make life-changing decisions, so I forewent it, but even after I recovered, I didn't know what I was feeling. At work, at home, in the temple, in San Diego—no real answer seemed forthcoming.

My stake conference came around, and with it forced interaction with the person with whom I was having an Interpersonal Crisis. Some time had passed, so—well, I don't know what I was thinking except that I knew this person was a good person and didn't believe they would double down on the way they'd treated me. But they did double down on it. I felt like I'd been slapped, and I left the building in a daze. All of a sudden, it became clear that if more of this treatment was in store each time I saw this person, I couldn't stay here. I remembered about what the General Authority said about making a decision and getting confirmation after moving forward. So be it. Every time I'd chosen not to go on a mission, things hadn't really worked out. What is it they say: that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Time to do something different. I rushed to speak with my bishop the next day.

My bishop, a wise man whom I very much look up to, thought I would make a great missionary. We agreed to officially start the mission papers. However, he also said: "Don't go on a mission to run away from your problems."

Easier said than done. No matter the other reasons, the sole thing that allowed me to feel free to pursue a mission was how terribly my life was going. Those problems would be a catalyst regardless of anything else. I worked to resolve them as much as I could to make the decision-making process clearer, but they refused to resolve.

Meanwhile, as I filled out my mission papers, I felt terrible. I felt a sick feeling similar to the one I felt the first time I prayed about it. I didn't like talking or thinking about the mission even as I prepared in earnest. I knew in my heart that this wasn't right, but I was so tired of choosing to stay yet being so unsuccessful.

Things came to a head, and blessedly I was able to take a step back and say, "What am I doing? This doesn't make sense." I was just a few steps away from completing my mission papers, but I decided not to do so. The sick feeling went away. I knew I'd made the right decision. I wish I could say that things got better, but they're still pretty up in the air. I'm hoping for a couple of miracles, but in the meantime, I at least feel stronger and more able to deal with some things.

And that's how I almost ran away from all my problems.

Minister of Change

When I was called to be the Relief Society president in September, the responsibilities of the role were well-defined. The Relief Society president, her counselors, and her secretary(s) arrange the spiritual lessons and music for each Sunday, plan quarterly Relief Society activities, and teach a lesson of their own choosing once a month. They assign each sister in the ward at least one "visiting teacher" who checks in with her and learns about her needs. Each month, they put together a report for the bishop that shows who has been visited that month. In other parts of the nation or world, the presidency might be responsible for teaching things like literacy or good hygiene, and in a family ward they would prepare a lot of food and offer a lot of support for births, weddings, and funerals. We don't do a ton of that in my ward, though, due to the nature of a ward made up entirely of single individuals.

Not long after I accepted the calling, changes to the way we run things began to be handed down by the First Presidency. My counselors and I no longer teach lessons on first Sundays; we guide council meetings with the members of the Relief Society where we discuss things we want to improve, do better at, or act on. As of about a month ago, we're no longer doing visiting teaching. Instead, we're doing "ministering," where the number of visits are no longer tracked. The girls in the ward are responsible for knowing what's going on in the lives of one another, but they can connect with those they're asked to help in just about any way. My secretary doesn't create a report for the bishop; now I just tell him each quarter about the needs of the sisters and how they're being addressed. These administration changes have filled some gaps we were seeing in the lives of the sisters. Pretty neat.

It's not normal to have this many changes in such a short period of time, though. In the ten months I served with Madam President, we never had one, much less two, large organizational changes to implement. In short, this is an unusual time to serve in a Relief Society presidency. I feel honored and privileged to be in a calling where I get to help these things unfold. It's a huge blessing.

Dude, We're Getting the Band Back Together! I Mean Presidency.

You might have noticed that I've been feeling down lately.

This past summer was a real slugger, and there wasn't much of a chance for me to hit back. So it was kind of like I got punched in the face over...and over...and over again. After everything, I just felt restless, overwhelmed, and discouraged. There was a lot of "Woe is me!" going on inside my head.

In the midst of this grand pity party, I felt I needed to serve others more. I tried to look for opportunities to do so, and that seemed to help. Then the bishop of my ward asked if he could meet with me. He inquired if I would take on a new calling, and even though my entire life felt like a giant mess, I agreed.

It just so happens that four years ago exactly, I wrote about being a counselor in my ward's Relief Society presidency. Well, today, I'd like to share that as of about a month ago, I am the ward's Relief Society president.

For those of you who don't know, the Relief Society is the largest women's organization in the world. Among other things, the organization tends to the sick and the poor, first inside its local congregations and then without. A Relief Society president and her counselors and secretaries are kind of like women's ministers. They help the women in the congregation both spiritually and physically and take care of all the administrative stuff, such as assigning someone to visit each sister in the ward so that no one is left out or overlooked.

The ten months I served in the presidency with Madam President and La Petite were some of best but most challenging months of my life. So while I was excited for the opportunity to serve again, I was nervous about a lot of things—for example, time management, or the fact that the Relief Society president who preceded me is just about a literal angel. She's sweet, compassionate, and thoughtful. I feel that I tend to be abrasive. Maybe even obnoxious and disliked à la John Adams. I could go on, but you get the idea. However, in our church we believe callings are from God. I could only conclude that a) I'd have divine help to manage my time and b) my God either was okay with my abrasiveness or giving me an excellent chance to learn how to refine my personality.

The angel Relief Society president gave me some counsel. She said that she felt like her flaws were visible every day in her calling and that she had to learn to be patient with herself. Both of those things have been true for me x10. Every day, I realize that I fall short one way or another. Happily, I've been blessed with great counselors and secretaries: Flower Child, Vix, Valiant, and Rebecca. They have a lot of qualities that are sorely needed but that I don't have.

All in all, I'm doing very well. I don't say "Woe is me!" anywhere near as often because I don't have as much time to think about myself. I've been able to let go of a lot of things and entrust them to Heavenly Father. I feel really blessed, and I want to help others feel the same way.

Tell All

Yesterday, as I was perusing my Facebook, I noticed something interesting. A fellow who went to college with me got married a few weeks ago in Taiwan. He was married to his wife in a temple after the normal LDS fashion, but it looked like there was also a huge celebration before or after the temple ceremony...or both.

Immediately, I started composing in my head exactly what I would say to Viola when I told her about it.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Viola, remember so-and-so from Nameless Utah College? The one from Virginia I would have gone out with if he'd asked me? Well, he just got married in Taiwan because apparently his wife is Taiwanese. It looked like they had what I assume was a bunch of traditional Taiwanese wedding traditions. From the pictures it looks like the bride had at least four different special wedding outfits. And it looked like one of the traditions involved so-and-so dressing up as a squid before the wedding. I kid you not, he was wearing a squid headpiece. Now I'm really curious about Taiwanese weddings. I actually read an article a few days ago about how in certain parts of Indonesia, funerals are more expensive, festive, and important than weddings. Isn't the world interesting?

And so on and so forth. It's funny how when we develop a bond with someone, we want to share everything with them. All week, I've been storing up words in my head: descriptions of the cupcakes my mom brought me at work on Wednesday and of my Thursday doctor's appointment. Quick, pointless anecdotes about the four hours I spent today with Little Sister, Mr. Little Sister, and Baby Sister in our grandmother's basement, painting the shelves in the basement so that they're ready when Little Sister and Mr. Little Sister move in after their wedding. A meandering explanation of my psychological reaction to having to plan a party. I store them all up in readiness to give away to the right person. The right person will think they're valuable. The right person will look at me and think how great it is that I want to share with them, even though what I'm saying isn't interesting in the least. If you've ever talked at length to a small child, you might understand what I mean. Small children tend to go on and on, but we find them fascinating and count ourselves lucky that they would trust us enough to share their words.

Heartbroken

Context: No, this isn't a post about the election. The only thing I have to say about the election is this: it reminded me of the series finale of The Legend of Korra. Leading up to the finale, I saw where things were headed, and even though I didn't like it, it at least made some sense. Then, when the finale actually happened, it was different than expected. I still didn't like it, but it didn't even make much sense. It was like some writer had panicked and thrown in some crazy stuff so that the ending was a surprise...and that's about how the election came across to me.

This post is actually about dating. I don't write much about specific dating experiences on my blog. Dating is hard enough without having your flaws deconstructed online by someone with whom you went on a date, am I right? However, it seemed appropriate to share the following experience...maybe because it's less about a fella's interactions with me and more about my own internal struggle.

I was heartbroken. Really, truly heartbroken. A guy I cared about had crushed my little heart. No, we weren't dating, but actual dating, I discovered, is not a necessary component of heartbreak. Even if a relationship doesn't actually happen, the strong feelings can still exist.

Immediately following this heartbreak, I went on a date with a guy from a family that is friends with my family. Soon we went on another date. And another...and another.

He was a nice guy. He was cute. He was fun. He was about to go out of state for college, but he hinted that if I gave him a reason to stay, he would stay.

He didn't have all of the qualities I wanted in a boyfriend, though, and so I wrestled with myself, wondering if the lack of those qualities was important enough to rule him out. Sometimes I thought yes. Sometimes I thought no.

The pressure to date him was strong. There was some pressure from my family and some pressure from my friends. They wanted me to be happy, and, on paper, this was the perfect opportunity. It did seem like the right ending to the way things had been going. Just picture it: brokenhearted girl is brokenhearted. Nice guy steps in. She should let nice guy heal and then win her heart, right? It would make sense. It would tie up the loose ends. But...I just couldn't go through with it.

I thought about it, and I prayed about it. I even flipped a coin repeatedly—not as a way to actually make the decision but as a way to figure out what I was actually feeling. I'd heard that when you flip a coin and pretend you'll go with the coin's decision, you'll know what you actually want based on the results. And, sure enough, every time the coin told me to date the fellow, I felt dread. But whenever it said, "Don't date him!" I felt relief.

Madam President even pointed out to me that whenever the guy who had broken my heart texted me, it made me happy, even when I was mad at him. "But when [the guy who wanted to date me] texts you, you never seem excited."

Eventually, I determined that the next time the guy asked me out, I'd say no. However, I think he could tell that I wasn't feeling it, because he never asked me out again. We went our separate ways, and a few months later, he met the girl he ended up marrying.

So that's my story of being heartbroken and of (possible) heartbreaking. I don't know why sometimes things that logically should work out don't feel right and don't turn out. Nor do I know why sometimes things that logically should never work do feel right and turn out. If you've been through one of those experiences and you're looking for someone to explain it to you, I'm sorry: I can't. But if you've been through one of those experiences and you're looking for someone to commiserate with you and say, "It's not fair," you've come to the right place. It isn't fair. Unfortunately, sometimes that's just the way things go.

Harry Potter, Now with More Harry Potter!

I saw an article with this headline: "Chrissy Teigen and John Legend had their baby and her name will thrill 'Harry Potter' fans."

First I tried to remember who John Legend and Chrissy Teigen are; I'm not one for keeping up with the popular things. After I'd correctly identified John Legend as the guy who sings that "All of Me" song that's both soul-wrenchingly beautiful and annoyingly repetitive, I wondered what Harry Potter name they'd given their baby. Ginevra Legend? Minerva McGonagall Legend? Hermione Hermione Hermione Legend?

The answer was: Luna. Luna Simone Stephens (so I guess "Legend" is a stage name? I knew it was too cool to be true).

And I was all, "Luna? How does them calling her Luna even justify mentioning Harry Potter at all, much less in the headline?" Because yes, one of Harry's good friends is the oh-so-delightful Luna Lovegood. But I'm not sure that's the automatic association that people have with that word. After all, it means "moon" in both Spanish and Italian. It was the name of a character on Bear in the Big Blue House. Luna is the name of the space colony in the very-popular Lunar Chronicles. It's the name of my great-grandmother. So why only mention Harry Potter?

It's because everyone loves Harry Potter. This isn't the first article I've noticed that flaunts the phrase "Harry Potter" in the headline when there's only the loosest of connections. I don't think it's coincidental that when Alan Rickman passed away, most of the articles I saw used a picture of him as Snape. The news people know that like 90% of the world is like 90% more likely to click something if it references Harry Potter. Harry Potter is beloved throughout the world, and hardly anyone dislikes it. It transcends languages, countries, cultures, religions, and political parties. Romeo and Juliet would have ended much differently if Harry Potter was around in Shakespeare's time. The play would have ended with the Montagues and the Capulets reconciling their differences through their common love of Harry Potter.

On a related note, La Petite is just barely discovering the joys of Harry Potter. She had never read it until I forced it upon her and Madam President a few months ago. La Petite read the first book with some hesitation but tore right through the second, third, fourth, and fifth. She texts me about Harry Potter, speculates to me about the sixth and and seventh books, and regularly pins Harry Potter pins. She's obsessed, and I love that she's obsessed. Obsession is the funnest when it's brand new.

To indulge her obsession, I brought some Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans to share with her and Mr. La Petite. We giggled and exclaimed as we tried the different flavors. Then I put the half-full box in my purse and forgot about it.

The next day at church, I was looking for a breath mint. I instead found Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans scattered about the bottom of my purse.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: One of these might work on my bad breath.

Completely forgetting to proceed with caution, I popped a yellow one into my mouth. I thought it was lemon.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Nope...rotten egg.

One for the Stalkers

Dear Stalkers,

I know you're out there.

Before you jump to any conclusions, let me say that in this case a stalker is anyone who repeatedly reads my blog but has never followed me on Blogger, never left a comment on the blog, never liked or commented on the links I've posted on Facebook, and never said anything about it to me in person.

Within my first year of blogging, Madam President told me that she'd gone to a party where she'd heard a guy that we knew telling other people to read my blog.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Um...that's really weird...because he and I talk sometimes but he's never said anything to me about this blog ever.

MADAM PRESIDENT: Really?!

Then Bonnaby approached me after an institute class and told me that this same guy had recommended my blog to him.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I didn't even know he'd ever read my blog!

It took another year before the guy actually talked to me about it.

DON'T BE LIKE THIS GUY! If you read my blog, and you know me, then I want to know that you read it. I promise that I won't think it's weird. I wouldn't post the link on Facebook if I didn't want people to use it. I wouldn't post stuff about myself online if I didn't expect people to read said stuff.

So, please, stalkers, come clean. If you don't come clean, I'll be forced to believe that you read this blog for some hidden sinister purpose. Who wants to be considered a hidden-sinister-purpose stalker? Surely not you!

So I'll hear from you soon, yes? You'll come and say to me, "Forgive me, Awkward Mormon Girl, for I have stalked." And I shall say, "That's okay! Thanks for coming clean! And for reading my blog!" And then we'll hug and maybe get a soda or something.

That's how it will go down. Can't wait!

Love,

Awkward Mormon Girl

The Rant

Today I was fifth-book Harry.

I love the fifth Harry Potter book. It's so fun. But I don't love fifth-book Harry, because fifth-book Harry is some rough times.

Today, I was rough times.

It all started when La Petite and Madam President came over for a while. We were supposed to talk about the first Harry Potter book. (La Petite and Madam President are not acquainted with the joys of Harry Potter and I have convinced them to try it.) We did talk about Harry for a while, but then we talked about some personal stuff.

When it was my turn, I exploded.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL AS FIFTH-BOOK HARRY: My life is so hard! I do so much difficult stuff that Dumbledore doesn't even trust me!

FRIENDS: Um, are you sure you're not making this harder than it needs to be-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: You don't know me! You don't know my life! YOU WEREN'T EVEN THERE WHEN VOLDEMORT RETURNED!

Then I went for dinner with Pepper and another member of our improv troupe. Basically, I ranted the whole time and they listened to my rant.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: You don't know how hard it is to be the Chosen One and have the fate of the entire wizarding world resting on my shoulders.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: And midi-chlorians are a terrible father.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Wait. I'm turning into Hayden Christensen Anakin Skywalker. That's worse!

Luckily, everyone was very patient and supportive of me, and things didn't escalate to a point where I tried to kill my Jedi master and melted my face off in some lava.

Five Weddings

I. The First
Although Etch-a-Sketch is not the friend I have been closes with the longest, she is the friend I met first. We went to preschool together and reunited in high school. She is also the first of my friends to get married.

I was terribly excited for Etch-Sketch's wedding. We went wedding dress shopping. I gave suggestions for decorations and helped glue the centerpieces together. The day of the wedding, I spent the morning at the reception venue, helping to get things ready. Then it was off to the temple to see Etch-a-Sketch and her new husband emerge, beaming. I beamed back at them. Then it was another mad dash--this time to prepare and serve the luncheon. I friend corn chips to put on the Cafe Rio-style salads like I had been born into the world for that purpose. After the luncheon, a short break. Then we set up for the reception. I made and served miniature cheesecakes and ran to the store for more chocolate syrup. I didn't leave until after Etch-a-Sketch and Mr. Etch-a-Sketch had driven off to start their life together as husband and wife.

II. How Are You?
I met Shutterbug in high school band class, and I thought I knew her from somewhere. Her name and her face and her amazing red hair all seemed familiar to me.

We would talk occasionally. Then we became band trip roommates, and soon were friends.

When I saw Shutterbug at lunch and between classes, she would often say, "How are you?"

One day, I retorted by pointing out that we not only saw each other almost every day, we often saw each other multiple times a day, and "How are you?" is something people should only say to each other when they don't see each other often and sincerely don't know how the other is doing, and so therefore could we please greet each other in some other manner?

From then on, we made a point of never saying, "How are you?" to each other. If one of us slipped, they received a severe chastisement.

Then one year, Shutterbug went on a date on my birthday. Things became Facebook official while I was in Italy, and they married the day before Thanksgiving. Shutterbug and her husband made their home in a city not too far from Hometown, but not too close either.

Now, when Shutterbug and I see each other, we say, "How are you?"

III. Saying Yes
One day, the bishop called me into his office and told me that we were getting a new Relief Society president, and that she felt prompted to ask me to be her first counselor. Would I accept this calling?

"Yes," I said. Yes to the calling, yes to serving Heavenly Father, and yes to loving and helping and being the right-hand woman of this new president, whomever she was.

I went to the temple that week. A girl that I'd known in junior high and who had recently joined our ward was there.

She came and sat by me. I let her. I'd always thought she was nice and, besides, I knew that being in the Relief Society presidency would require being extra friendly and conscientious of the women in my ward.

We did baptisms for the dead. Afterward, the girl from junior high school cornered me and began to spill out her soul.

"I've just been having such a hard time," she said breathlessly, then launched into a long explanation.

I listened politely, but I was a little taken aback. I didn't remember her being so...randomly-share-personal-stuff with-almost-strangers-ish.

"-and then this calling-" she continued.

"Oh." Comprehension had dawned. "You must be the new Relief Society president!"

We returned to that temple often, Madam President and I. And we visited and served and talked and laughed and loved together. We visited and talked and laughed and loved a year away. And at the end of that year, I went to that temple once again to witness Madam President be married and sealed for time and eternity, for she had said yes to a calling even more demanding and rewarding than Relief Society president.

IV. Meant to Be
It appears that Heavenly Father very much wanted La Petite and I to be friends, on account of He gave us so many opportunities to do it.

First, we attended the same junior high, although we never did meet.

Then we ended up in the same ward, although we never did talk.

Then I applied to work at the fast food restaurant where, unbeknownst to me, La Petite was employed. We talked occasionally, and after a year starting becoming truly friendly and then friends.

Then we both served with Madam President. La Petite was the Relief Society secretary, the person who kept us organized. The three of us served endless hours together, as a presidency, as sisters in Zion, as friends.

When La Petite begged told me that she would force me if I didn't asked me to move in with her and the Seamstress, I accepted, because after spending so much time with her in so many different capacities, I knew we were definitely compatible as roommates.

I moved in. Three weeks later, she was engaged. She wanted to stay with us and get married, but as those things aren't compatible, she married and moved out.

At the reception, someone said to me, "Oh, so you're her roommate?"

This was strange to me, that when La Petite and I were students together, in the same ward, coworkers, friends, and also in the Relief Society presidency together, I should be addressed by the title of "roommate," when that title had been acquired but lately and been fleeting indeed.

V. The Last
My BFF Viola and I met at a pivotal time of life. We quickly became best friends, meaning, of course, that I would clearly someday attend her wedding.

After many years of friendship, the day that was once only hypothetical became a reality. Viola's wedding day came upon us.

Nobody formally "gave" Viola "away" at the wedding. But informally, a wedding is always a giving away. Especially for dear friends who give the care and keeping of somebody they love away to someone that they hope loves her as much as or more than they do. They give her away to a new life, knowing their place will be different in it. That's as it should be; that's as marriage should be. But even when it should be, different is still different.

I cried at the ceremony. I smiled at the reception. I just didn't know what to do with myself. So I took up a pen and gave myself over to that ambitious human pastime: trying to explain exactly what you are feeling.

Roadside Assistance

The following story takes place on my most recent birthday:

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (to Madam President) Do you wanna go on a walk?

MADAM PRESIDENT: Can I take you someplace to celebrate your birthday instead?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: How can I say no to that?

MADAM PRESIDENT: Okay! I need to get gas, though. Hopefully we don't run out.

Our heroines get in Madam President's car. Four blocks later...

MADAM PRESIDENT: We're out of gas.

Undaunted, they call Madam President's sister. Awakened from her nap, the sister kindly drops off a gas can at their location.

MADAM PRESIDENT: Hmm. I've never done this before...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Nor have I.

With some apprehension, they strive to uncover the secrets of the gas can.

MADAM PRESIDENT: (using all her gas can skillz) Okay... So it opens like this...and then this thing here actually becomes the nozzle...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (stands next to Madam President and tries to make appropriately supportive comments)

MADAM PRESIDENT: I think I've got it.

She hefts the heavy gas can. Awkward Mormon Girl helps lift it to the gas tank opening. They place the nozzle inside and pour.

The gasoline does not waterfall smoothly through the nozzle and into the gas tank. It inexplicably cascades from the base of the nozzle instead. Madam President's shoes are drenched, and so are Awkward Mormon Girl's hands.

MADAM PRESIDENT: Happy birthday!

Madam President tries to flag down passing cars. After a few no-gos, a man in a truck stops and looks at our heroines questioningly.

MADAM PRESIDENT: Can you help us? We're incompetent.

The Art of Manliness

It was night, and it was raining. The car was in the church parking lot. The car's battery was dead. The car needed to be jump-started.

Easier said than done.

"I have jumper cables," Madam President volunteered. "Do you know how to jump-start a dead battery?"

"No," said the woefully unprepared Awkward Mormon Girl. This was not the first time her car battery had died that week. The first time, she had sworn to herself that it would never happen again.

She had also sworn many times that she would get a spare key and Velcro it to the inside of her purse so that she wouldn't have to call home on the frequent occasions she locked her keys in her car. That hadn't happened, either.

"I don't know how to jump-start one either," said Madam President.

Since neither of them knew how to jump-start a car, they decided to consult something that would know: the internet.

"Here's a blog post on how to jump-start a car," Madam President announced after consulting her smartphone. The blog post was from a blog called The Art of Manliness. That was promising. Everyone knows that manliness is about jump-starting cars, not about standing up for truth or treating people right.

With some difficulty, they were able to figure out the mechanical workings of the mysterious device known as a hood. They propped the hoods' lids open and, standing in the rain, used a flashlight to gaze upon the dark interiors.

"Okay," said Madam President. "How do we do this?"

"Okay, so, connect the red cable to the positive terminal," Awkward Mormon Girl said, scrolling through the blog post.

MADAM PRESIDENT: Which one is the positive one?

(thoughtful silence)

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Well, this one kind of looks like the picture on the blog. See, if you turn the picture around... Oh, look, there's a marking on it.

BOTH: (peer closer)

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Is that a negative...or a positive?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It's a positive...I think.

CABLE: (is attached)

MADAM PRESIDENT: Okay, so that must mean that we attach the black cable to the negative terminal. I'll just-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY. STOP! The blog says that if you attach the negative cable to the negative terminal, there will be a terrible explosion and you will die a horrific, horrifying, fiery death!!! You're supposed to attach the negative terminal to some other piece of metal somewhere under the hood instead.

An examination of the engine ensued.

Asked Madam President, "Is that metal, or is it just gray plastic?" They had never in their lives had such a hard time telling two completely different materials apart.

Finally, after much ado, all the cables were attached. Madam President hopped into her car.

"Stand back, Awkward Mormon Girl, in case one of our cars explode," she said. "If I die, tell my family that I love them."

Gingerly she turned the ignition. The blog said to let the engine run for a few minutes before turning on the dead car, so patiently Madam President and Awkward Mormon Girl waited.

After an appropriate number of minutes, Awkward Mormon Girl tried her engine. Nada.

"Maybe," Madam President said, "if we let the engine run longer..."

They did. Todavía nada.

Thrice they tried, and thrice they failed, and all the while it was cold and dark and rainy. After the third try, they made up their minds to leave the car till morning and come back with a more experienced adult.

At that moment, two members of the bishopric exited the church building. They saw what Madam President and Awkward Mormon Girl were trying to do, and immediately offered their assistance and mad skillz of manliness.

The first thing they did was reconfigure the cables.

COUNSELOR: Which one is the positive one?

(thoughtful silence)

OTHER COUNSELOR: Look, there's a marking on it. Is that a negative...or a positive?

The red cable was attached to the positive terminal. And then, horror of horrors, one of the counselors attached the black cable to the negative terminal!!!

Madam President and Awkward Mormon Girl gasped, waiting for a terrible explosion and horrific, horrifying, fiery death.

But there were no explosions. There were no deaths. Just Awkward Mormon Girl's car starting up, quite nicely.

As she got in the car and drove away, Awkward Mormon Girl swore that the next time her car battery died, she would jump it herself.

And also, she would definitely get a Velcroed key.

R-E-L-I-E-F

Recently I was called as the first counselor in my singles ward's Relief Society.

Every time I hear the words "Relief Society" I sing that song from The Rescuers: "R-E-S-C-U-E, Rescue Aid Societyyyyyyyyyy." Except I sing with new lyrics that don't sound as good. "R-E-L-I-E-F, Re-elief Societyyyyyyyy."

But what can you do?

Part of the calling of the Relief Society presidency is to know and visit with all the women in the ward. The problem is, some of the women on our list haven't been to church in years. So in order to find out who they are, we have to go to their houses and knock on the door. It's kind of like tracting, except we're always looking for a specific person at a specific destination.

We do these kind of visits for two or three hours on one weeknight per week. So far, we've had lots of unanswered doors, wrong houses, and general confusion about addresses in general.

The last problem can be partially attributed to me, myself, and I. Let me tell you a shameful secret: I have minimal directional discrimination skillz. Sometimes I can't tell my right hand from my left.

It's an inconvenience when, for example, I'm looking in the mirror trying to do my hair and I have no idea which hand I need to move in order to finish the hairstyle. But when I'm trying to find an address, it becomes a much larger problem.

PERSON DRIVING: Which way?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Right.

(car turns right)

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL:...I meant left.

Not even going to tell you how often the Relief Society president and I get lost whilst trying to find addresses, but it's a lot. A lot of times.

And then tonight, this happened:

MADAM PRESIDENT: What do the numbers on those houses say?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I'm not sure...

MADAM PRESIDENT: Here, let's drive by again.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Now might be a good time to mention that I'm legally blind.