Pillow fight! Just kidding . . . But what is more fun that a bunch of big, fluffy pillows? If you’ve just moved into a new apartment or home, a quick way to make your new space feel “homey” is to make some spunky pillows for any room. Currently,…
By Jerrick Robbins My sister recently bought a new cell phone. It has all the speed, all the data, and all the memory a person could want. Her brand-new technology puts my one-year-old technology to shame. In fact, it might as well own my phone.…
by Jenna Hoffman
I was ready to move out of my parents’ house long before I actually did. By the time I was eighteen, my family was practically begging me to leave. My mom and I argued more often than not, my dad and I barely spoke, and my siblings were just nuisances to be tolerated.
When my mom dropped me off at my dorm the first day of freshman year, there was nothing in my heart but joy for my new found freedom. Although my parents only lived twenty minutes away, I can count on one hand the number of times I went home that year. I was having too much fun pulling pranks on the boys across the way and hosting spontaneous game nights with my new friends.
For the most part, this attitude continued through my sophomore year and into my junior year as well. As I had opportunities to live with and learn from a variety of people, I realized that everyone else seemed to have been raised much differently than I had. I started to make dangerous comparisons, comparisons which led to confusing thoughts and subsequent unfair accusations.
I was frustrated with the way I’d been raised. In my limited scope of life, I felt that I might have turned out better had my parents practiced “the right” parenting techniques. I might have been a better communicator and friend, a more competitive student and athlete. I might have had a stronger testimony of the gospel and a better grasp on the complexities of life.
According to my young and selfish self, everything I wasn’t and everything I didn’t have was my parents’ fault.
In the following months, I put my brain through a metaphorical meat processor in an attempt to figure myself out. I wanted to dig into the vaults of my upbringing and unearth the causes and effects of the person I had become. It was a long and emotionally painful process, punctuated by intense arguments with my parents and teary conversations with friends.
During one such conversation, a friend, who was a parent herself wisely told me, “I’ve learned that part of becoming an adult is accepting that your parents made mistakes, and forgiving them for it.” This piece of advice revealed two things to me: that everyone else had imperfect parents, just like I did; and that my parents were not just parents, they were people. I could not claim perfection, so why did I expect them to be able to?
This realization was the first step in accepting my parents for who they were rather than trying to change them into who I wanted them to be. Instead of blaming them for what I felt they’d done wrong, I took a deeper look into their own ideas and experiences, and I began to appreciate them for what they’d done right. And when I really took that time to evaluate my family in a fair and honest way, I discovered that although there were flaws, and grievances, and mistakes, at the core there was only pure and unadulterated love. And that is the way things are.
by Cody Phillips When the basketball court inside Brigham Young University’s Marriott Center morphs into an enormous stage—makeshift orchestra pit included—you know something memorable is about to happen. Production crews and performers alike spend countless hours each fall preparing for BYU Spectacular a colorful and…
by Melissa Hart
Five. . . four. . . three. . .two. . . bang! The gun fired and the Pioneer Day Temple to Temple 5k began. I ran along the 5k route, happy to be running, loving the atmosphere of the race, and very aware of the little extra tag on my bib number that read “Minnie Irene Case.”
As part of the Pioneer Day race, we were encouraged to run for one of our ancestors. While my great grandma Minnie wasn’t a pioneer who actually crossed the plains with a covered wagon or handcart, I had learned enough about her to know that she was definitely a pioneer—a strong woman who supported her small family by teaching piano lessons and who raised my angel of a grandmother—just in a little different sense of the word.
I ran past the “landmarks” set up along sides of the Provo streets, Chimney Rock, Scott’s Bluff, Fort Laramie, and was reminded of the first time I followed a path carrying an ancestor’s name with me. It was a pioneer trek reenactment when I was a teenager, and the ancestor’s name that time was Julia Ann Phippen, Minnie’s great granddaughter (my great-great-great grandmother). Julia did cross the plains with a covered wagon, just a young girl at the time. The story I love most about her was when she convinced her father to let her pick flowers along the trail and her red calico dress caught the attention of the Indians. After holding up all the fingers on one hand, showing her father just how many horses he was willing to trade for the girl in the red dress, the Indian brave rode away, disappointed and confused. What a different life I would have if that Indian had been successful!
I neared the next landmarks, Independence Rock, Martin’s Cove, Rocky Ridge, and continued running with the throng of people celebrating the heritage of Utah. Our mini 5k Pioneer trail was nearing the end—South Pass, Fort Bridger, Emigration Canyon, with the Salt Lake Valley just ahead. As I entered the Salt Lake Valley, I’m sure I didn’t feel nearly as relieved as Julia and my other pioneer ancestors, but I did feel a great sense of accomplishment. Not only for finishing the race, but also for becoming closer to my ancestors. I still don’t exactly understand why, but carrying Minnie’s name with me that day was an honor, not just a mindless action without any meaning. It was subtle, a very quiet feeling, but it confirmed to me that every action that I take to know my ancestors impacts my life. If I were to attempt to explain it, I’d probably get it wrong. But maybe it’s just a tiny bit of the gratitude I should feel for those who came before me finally getting into my heart
This past spring, while chicks were hatching and new flowers were blooming, my nephew was born. Our whole family beamed with excitement as we held his tiny body in our arms. He was perfect. He still is, despite the diagnosis that came just days later;…
by Alissa Strong On Tuesday morning, Former President Bill Clinton appeared on CBS and issued a no-holds-barred statement to Muslim activists. Clinton condemned the tendency to resort to violence when the Islamic faith is disrespected and claimed that the modern world is too diverse, too…