My job is your job.

The state should not be responsible for stopping child abuse.

There, I said it.

Let me explain. As many of you know, I work for Utah’s version of child protective services. I won’t say I “like” my job because that word doesn’t mean anything. My job is challenging, heartbreaking, eye-opening, frustrating, rewarding. It cuts deep into the veins of human existence: our relationships, our families, and why we’re here. I have learned more in a year out in the field than I ever did taking classes about social work.  And I have learned more about myself than I had ever hoped.

When I tell people what I do, the most common response I get is some variation of, “that must be so hard. I don’t know how you do it. I could never do that”. Truth is, I don’t know how I do it either, but I’ve really come to hate that response for this reason: By saying you could “never” work for child protective services, you and the rest of the world are subconsciously putting the responsibility to stop child abuse on someone else. On me. On the state. On other people.

Guess what guys, making sure children and other vulnerable populations aren’t taken advantage of, is your responsibility too, simply because you’re human.

I don’t know what it is about our culture, but many of us have forgotten how to give. Many of us have never learned that when you see a problem, you actually can fix it. Many of us have forgotten that keeping a moral, creative, thriving culture and society, is the responsibility of the individual. It is YOUR responsibility. And many of us have never learned to see, or refuse to see, the marginalized, the people who truly need our help - the people who did not enter the world on equal ground and have had to fight tooth and nail to break even.

One great example of what I’m talking about is the “Provo bubble”. People describe Provo as this happy-go-lucky-land where the real world has no effect. I understand why it’s described like that. Brigham Young University is in Provo and the population is about 75% Mormon; in a recent study published in USAToday, Provo is the happiest city in America. When I first moved to Provo I seriously wondered if my fellow students were breathing different air than me because EVERYONE seemed to be much more faithful, hopeful, and happy than me. I didn’t know about the problems Provo has because no one talked about them. And that right there is the bubble. Provo has some deep problems, guys, the same problems EVERY city has. I’ve seen the drug raids and worked with the people involved in them. I’ve seen kids neglected in BYU’s back yard. I’ve worked with the homeless, those resorting to prostitution, those so deep into addiction and mental illness they can’t get out. And they are right here beside us. Next to BYU campus, next to student housing, and no one can see it. NO ONE WANTS TO SEE IT. Because  if you don’t see it, you’re not responsible to do something about it. You won’t have to feel the pull to help. You won’t have to recognize the painful part of being human. The bubble is not just in Provo, it is everywhere. It is this metaphorical sticking your head in the sand to avoid the world’s problems.

My job is a necessary one. I believe in social services. I believe in providing opportunity for reformation. But what I find incredibly sad, is the fact that my job exists in the way it does. Many people hate child protective services because, frankly, no one likes being told the way they are living their life is wrong. And few people take responsibility for harming those most dear to them: their children. People have a hard time seeing how important families and relationships are until they are ripped apart by abuse, violence, drugs. We have created a government institution to protect children and try to rehabilitate families because we as a people weren’t doing a good enough job on our own.  

My one plea is for people to wake up. It is not hard take a second and think about WHY you are here. Part of being human is respecting human life, taking responsibility for each other, and protecting one another. Relationships matter. Families matter. Pain matters. Take a look around and acknowledge the pain instead of running from it. The power to change someone’s life is literally in your hands, if you’re willing to see it. Power is not in the government, in the system, in the programs – it is in you. Use it. Take responsibility. You’re not as trapped as you’re led to believe.

And stop expecting the government to do everything, for God’s sake.

How I was mistaken for a prostitute

The key to looking like you belong in places you don’t belong in, is simply an air of confidence. I learned this in high school when I decided I wanted to ditch class and practice piano (I’m such a rebel, I know); no teacher would ever stop me if I simply went where I wanted with an air of authority and an attitude of I’m-doing-more-important-things-than-you-and-you’re-wasting-my-prescious-time. I’ve since found out trying to look natural as 22 year old white, female, government worker in the more than sketchy part of town, is a little more tricky and doesn’t always turn out the way you would expect.

The first time I visited one of the more infamous motels in south Provo was with my coworker Tim. Tim was tall and looked like he could easily beat up anyone who looked at him funny. Luckily for everyone who ever looked at him funny, he chose to diffuse situations with humor and always seemed to have the upper hand in emotional contests. We were working on a case together because I was only 2 months into the job, and he had a grandiose way of showing newbies how to succeed by doing almost literally no work. I think he liked mentoring me because I'm an overachiever and he thought it was funny. 

The motels in south Provo are by no means the sketchiest places I’ve ever been. In big city terms, they’re probably on the upper level of sketchy. Most of the people who frequent them are addicts, the homeless, the mentally ill, or some combination of the three. The rooms reek of shady deals and the buildings have a general uncleanliness about them that comes from years of nefarious usage and from not being cleaned properly. Me and Tim went to visit a couple of clients who lived there who's cases he was going to pass on to me. They were an older man in his 70’s (who I’ll call Bob) and his 16 year old autistic son who found themselves homeless after a long string of events that Bob effectively blamed on the government.  Because ‘the government’ doesn’t exactly have one singular person to blame, the ranting and raving landed on me because I was his caseworker. That’s kind of how it works when you’re a social worker. This family has given me plenty of stories on their own so I won’t talk much about them here. Suffice it to say, visiting them always made me want to curse the inequality in the world and simultaneously curse Bob because of the lies that came out of his mouth.

I visited Bob frequently, to make sure his kid was taken care of. Tim would go with me most of the time but I quickly grew confident enough to go to the motel by myself because I’m Liz and I tend to put myself into needlessly dangerous situations. It really was no big deal going there alone because I acted like I belonged there. No one ever questioned me or even looked my way. Most of the time people were too busy getting into violent arguments in the alleyways between buildings, dealing drugs, or sleeping off the previous nights’ supply to even realize there were other people in the world. The tenants were only really organized by the fact that they were all lost and happened to gather in the same place. Addiction does that to people. Plus I deeply and strongly believe most people are not trying to take advantage of you; they’re just trying to survive like everyone else. So I just did my job and left.

It was as I was leaving one evening, that the two women approached me. One had long, mousy brown hair fashioned into dreads. She was smoking a joint and stared me down coolly, one hand resting in the pocket of her cargo shorts. Her bare arms were covered in tattoos, and she seemed to favor skulls and pinup girls. The other was a platinum blonde dressed in what appeared to well worn lingerie that clung to her skeletal frame. She was talking to the woman in dreads in earnest, reaching for the joint and upon grabbing it, sucked it like it was her last breathe of oxygen. Her face was done up so her makeup sunk into the premature lines of her face; they belonged to a 50 year old but I was sure she was only 30 something.  I ignored them, stopped to answer a text, and then turned to unlock my car. It was then that I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around, knees bent in anticipation of having to fight.

“Whoah there sista’, calm yur joint.” It was the woman in dreads. I glared at her confidently, sizing her up. I wasn’t nervous. If she went for me, Blondie was close enough and frail enough that I could effectively get her into a choke hold and have some leverage over Dreads… “Look hun, we was just lookin for a ride down to the gas station. We been here all night an’ Barbie here is sick of her man who is stayin here. Why don’t you be a doll and give us a ride.”

It wasn’t really a question, it was more of a demand. The small, terrified part of me could see the headlines: ‘Social Worker trying to save the homeless, brutally slaughtered in parking lot’.  The rational part of me sized up the situation: The two women did not look like much of a threat. Blondie was most likely an addict and looked like she could break in half. Dreads had the feel of an abuse victim mostly by how aggressively she presented herself and the way she had asked to get a ride; all I would have to do there is get her to open up and not hurt Blondie who she was obviously protecting. My gut told me I could easily gain the upper hand if needed but I probably wouldn’t need to. Why not do a nice thing for them? The gas station they wanted to go to was only a mile down the road.

“Ok sure” I said with a smile and pushed her hand away from my car to assume dominance while commenting on how it sucks to be ride-less when one needed to get away. They agreed. Dreads sat up front with me and Blondie sucked the joint in the back seat. As we drove away, I asked them about their lives. They were wanderers. Blondie was bisexual and was on and off with Dreads. Blondie’s boyfriend was really her meth supplier who Dreads had gone to beat up that night but he was too drunk and high to make it satisfying. Dreads obviously had beef with this guy and wanted revenge. They were evicted from their shared apartment months ago and were just waiting for the colder months to scrape together some money for a place. People often stayed at the motel for free. Dreads was a sexual abuse victim and became addicted to heroine really young but she proudly reported she was clean from most drugs for 3 weeks. I softly injected some community resources into the conversation as if I had been in their position and been to these places as a client, not a caseworker. They were already aware of everything I had to offer. Eventually the conversation came back to me.

“So what are you doing living at that motel huh? You seem too clean to live there” Dreads looked me up and down. I did look too clean.

“Oh I don’t live there, I was there for a client” I said.

“Where? 8b? That’s where you came out of! You were with that batshit crazy man?”

“Yeah that’s the one”

“Damn girl, I’m surprised he even needs a girl but I guess every man does. I hope he pays well for your sake. I sucked a guy that old and I’ll never do it again for too many reasons. That’s when I was really into meth. Stuff makes me crazy. You ever tried it?” I shook my head. She cackled and turned around to talk to Blondie who was staring out the back window in a daze. I was slightly in shock. I suppose I shouldn’t have said ‘client’ since I didn’t want to reveal I was a social worker for the government. So what else could ‘client’ mean if I was just like them? Dreads literally thought I was a prostitute. Me. A prostitute. I deliberated clearing up the confusion but we arrived at the gas station and the two women got out of my car quickly. Dreads stuck her head back in the window and told me to take care and advised me to get a real job because “sucking balls for money is hell”. I nodded, waved and drove off quickly.

Needless to say I didn’t tell my mother about this situation. Or anyone really. Sorry mom. I’m not dead though! Yay! And I don’t think I’ll ever give strangers from the motel rides again. And I think I’ll park down the street... I’m not sure what else I learned from the situation except that I suppose in the right light and with the right attitude, anyone can really be anything. I’m just really glad I’m not a prostitute in real life. Because sucking balls for money really does sound like hell. 

How I found laughter in a government bathroom

Precarious. That was my position. Precariously squatting on the edge of the toilet bowl. The toes of my scuffed up pumps placed on each side of the seat. They were sliding ever so slowly toward the water beneath me and I was not coordinated enough to reposition myself without completely falling off so tensed my thigh muscles to hold on. I silently hoped I had grabbed my bag off the floor before she saw it and realized she was not alone in here. She came in so quickly; I hadn’t had time to prepare myself. My phone, which I had been playing bejeweled on until moments ago, was stuffed unceremoniously down my bra.

The only sounds were her relieving herself (for what felt like eternity) and the shuffle of her sketchers against the mint tile. I gritted my teeth and tried to stay balanced on my porcelain perch, desperate not to make a sound. One slip and she would know I wasn’t in a meeting like I had said: I was in the bathroom for the sole purpose of avoiding her. When your career is to keep children away from their mother because she’s been deemed “unsafe” by the law, the space between you becomes insurmountable. And the distance between our stalls seemed much to short.

I heard her readjust her clothing and head to sink. I breathed a solitary sigh of relief…. Too soon. With an almighty splash, my foot slipped into the sea of germs beneath me and I screamed as I wacked my head on the wall.

“Fuck”, I gasped, my leg still positioned in the toilet bowl. The water had splashed all over my jeans and I was barely holding onto the shiny, metal support bar on the wall.

“You ok in there?” she asked in a bemused tone.

I tried to disguise my voice, “Uh… yeah…. Just, just dropped something in the… yeah”. Yeah. I just dropped my pride and any hope secrecy. No big deal.

“Ok” she said and quickly vacated, leaving the awkwardness air to mingle with my shame. I noticed she didn’t wash her hands. Of course she didn’t wash her hands. Then I realized my foot was still in the toilet and I gagged at my self-righteousness. I quickly got up, trailing water behind me, and scrubbed my leg with paper towels.  Fuck fuck fuck. My language is the least of a hundred things my job has slowly but deliberately eroded. My job. The familiar train of thought charged through my brain.  Of course this would happen to me. I’m cursed. I thought this was what I was supposed to do. I hate this job. I hate everything about everything…

The train halted abruptly, its whistle resounding in my brain: What am I doing with my life?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried since I’ve worked for DCFS. I can’t tell you how many difficult decisions I’ve made, how many times I’ve been called a bitch, how much responsibility I have to carry on my young, naïve shoulders, or the many difficult positions my clients have bent my psyche into. It’s like being told to have sex with someone you don’t know and don’t necessarily want to be with: devastating to the emotions and hugely, irrevocably intimate. Somehow in the act of trying to repair peoples’ lives from the outside, the vast empty on the inside grows to insidious proportions. It’s terribly difficult to fight how that empty sucks everything away and simultaneously connects me to the people I've come to love and truly hate. And here I was sitting on the bathroom floor in a government building covered in toilet water, because my love for a client and inability to accept her failure drove me to literally hide in the bathroom. Gee whiz.

It just hurts. Life just hurts. I bent my knees to my chest and buried my nose in between my thighs. There are pieces of me that still hold onto hope that there’s more to this life than what I see. Those pieces that have loved unconditionally. Those pieces that helped a few people succeed in the child welfare system. The pieces that can laugh with my friends even when the whole world tastes bitter and incomplete. The wholesome pieces that truly love life. But I often feel exactly how I am: in a mess I’ve created from avoiding my problems, very unsure how to proceed, and seriously debating crawling back into the stall I just came out of. I’m 22 years old and I’m somehow supposed to make decisions about other peoples’ lives. I’m supposed to try and help them surmount insurmountable problems. I’m somehow supposed to be able to deal with the hurt and sad and empty and pain and anger and brokenness and responsibility and failed promises and cruelty of circumstances and the injustice of the system and the vulnerability of humankind. And somehow I’m supposed to want to keep living….

It was there on the bathroom floor I began to laugh. It started with a smile as I looked at my damp jeans, evolved into a chuckle as I imagined myself balancing on the toilet and my client’s total confusion, and solidified into true laughter as I considered how childish the situation was and how comedic the outcome was. Precarious. That was my position. Precariously wavering on the division of devastation and comedy. Child abuse isn’t funny but people are.... even in situations that make most cringe. Wanna hear a story how a client offered me pizza in a bathroom that she got from her pimp? Or how two twenty something caseworkers tried to parent a foster kid on a four hour drive? Or how one of my coworker's clients likes to try to bribe government workers? Or about the accidental texts we get from clients who are high? Or how some parents like to name their kids after different STI's?

 

Maybe that’s the ultimate choice for me: choosing whether to laugh or whether to cry. Because, dang, if falling into a toilet isn’t funny, I don’t know what is.

 

 

With my own hands

This past week has been incredible. It’s hard to find words to describe the feelings I’ve felt and things I’ve done and seen and it’s impossible to know where I will end up as a result. But here I am, slightly hung-over from gulping down the all that my life has to offer right now. After a shorter-than-usual incarceration in my shadows and past fears, I’ve broken out and am running free. 

From my decisions came consequences. From those consequences came depression. From my depression came my anger. Out of my anger came acceptance. Then with that acceptance, I acted. And I acted with all the fervor my too-long passive heart could muster.

I have a tendency of getting myself into patterns of relationships where the only acting I do is preemptive striking. I stop making decisions for myself because I’m afraid of losing something. Every action of mine is simply a reaction or comes from whatever I fear may happen. If there’s anything I’ve learned it’s that it’s better to act and make mistakes and possibly lose than to shrink into nothingness. I'm not alive to live small, I'm here to play big.

I went to the Grand Canyon with a dear friend after months of talking about it and waiting for something else to take me there. I was tired of waiting and, you know, even though it wasn’t what I imagined the trip would be like, it was perfect in everything it was. We saw about a hundred deer (and almost hit several of them), buffalo, killer bees, and a million stars. We slept in my car, talked about important things, and made friends with a guy who could’ve kicked us out of the park. And of course, we experienced the Grand Canyon. When I saw it then, it was more than I could’ve ever imagined and when I think about it now, it makes me cry. It’s funny how this place, a revered hole in the ground, began to fill its equal in my heart. All my questions I had had for the universe and for God became irrelevant when I chose to be there.

So I kept choosing. I gave my heart. I told someone I love things he probably already knew but had never explicitly heard. I broke promises. I bonded with a coworker I never particularly liked simply by being honest with her. I made new friends. I gave my time to my clients and helped someone step back from suicide. I empowered a family I work with. I was vulnerable with a group of friends in a fantastic midnight adventure. I got my ears pierced again. I spent time with people I love and got to know them better. I embraced spontaneity. I acted without expectation. I made decisions that may lead to consequences I’ve never faced before. I saw myself as I really am instead of trying to hide and I was simultaneously pleased and dismayed by what I saw. I got pissed off at a friend and told him exactly how I felt. I loved in all the ways I know how. And so much more… So much more that I don’t know how to share.

A part of 2 Nephi 2:26 “…And because that they are redeemed from the fall they have become free forever, knowing good from evil; to act for themselves and not be acted upon…”. I’m not perfect. I make poor decisions more often than not and I have to deal with the consequences. But from those, I've grown. My darkest moments have not been in making my mistakes; I have only gotten into truly dark places when I see my right to choose as something to be afraid of instead of something to learn with. The darkness is not so deep when I embrace my weakness, keep going, keep acting, and accept that even though I am imperfect, I am still loved. Freedom is acting for yourself. There is still freedom when we continue to choose even when we make what may be terrible mistakes. There is the opportunity to see things as they really are and to TRULY change. I don’t think life was ever about not making mistakes, or about being perfect (which is something I easily get caught up in). It’s about the process and choosing in the face of imperfection and it’s the only way to change.

Why not do what you want now? Why not live the live you truly desire today? What's stopping you besides you? Why wait for something else to hand you what you want? Go for it. Give up the one-day-I-will's and if-only-I-had-done's. Give up the fear. Choose by the yearnings of your own heart and do it with your own hands. 

My bicycle

I have a bicycle. His name is William. He’s a cheap yellow and black road bike. I picked him up on a whim when my mountain bike was stolen. He was my only means of transportation besides my own two feet for a long time. I remember my first 30 mile ride with William. I felt the whole world had opened up to me; compared to my old way of getting around and living in this world, my bicycle was heaven. Though I never intended to, I quickly fell deeply in love with cycling.

I started training for my first 100 mile ride. I rode every weekend and every weekday possible and I felt free. Whenever I had a problem, I rode my bicycle and found clarity. I found hope to live another day in Utah County. I found a place where depression and anxiety and all of my problems couldn’t touch me. I found a peace that I couldn’t access anywhere else. And it was great. I had inadvertently stumbled upon something that I never knew I needed or wanted. I felt I could live like that forever; just keep riding and riding and be eternally at peace with the world. After my first century ride, I still felt that way. It was grueling, I was completely beat, I got the worst sunburn of my life and I still got off my bike and smiled. I would do it again. I loved it.

I rode all winter and planned out what rides I would do the next summer. I’ll do century rides. Someday I’ll bike across America. Someday I’ll bike down the east coast. Someday I’ll bike in the Adirondacks. I can do anything.

But this spring something has changed. I’ve been riding more than ever, I feel stronger than I ever have, I’ve improved my cadence, and devoured cycling magazines, and rode another century. But I no longer feel invincible. I no longer feel at peace with William. And it’s funny because I think I’ve cried more tears while on my bicycle than is humanly acceptable but they’ve always been tears of healing and now they’re tears of frustration. I’ve grown, I’m faster, I’m stronger, and I finally know with a surety it’s possible for me to perform better and go farther and do all of the things I want to do. But my bicycle is holding me back. In order to do what I need and want to do, I need a bicycle that can withstand higher pressure, one made for long distances and speed, one that was made for who I am becoming. My wonderful, old bicycle is holding me back. The bicycle that I’ve loved for so long. The bicycle that has taken me thousands of miles. The bicycle that allowed me to discover a world I wouldn’t have known otherwise…

So I’m stuck with a decision. Do I fully accept that I have changed and need something better or do I stick around with William, the bicycle I love?

In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t about my bicycle at all.

The thing is, I’ve lived in a place without a figurative bicycle for a long time. I never really knew a life with one. Then I was inadvertently introduced to a lifestyle with one - with hope. A way of living and building relationships that I never knew existed. One that I never knew I wanted or needed. I’ve worked so hard to get where I am now with that small piece of hope I was offered and many times it has whisked me away on a journey to bigger, better things that I’ve always wanted but never had the courage or option to believe in. And now I’m here, with all my hard work behind me and the ever-pressing reality that I’m better, though nowhere near perfect, in front of me.

Even though it is good, it’s so hard to take this new reality and make it all that I am. It’s so hard to step forward and leave behind a way of living that has nothing to offer me now except a nostalgic set of shackles. It’s so hard to believe that somewhere down the line I can have the whole world and more if I would just keep going and accept the person I have the potential to become. Change the relationships that hold me back or simply move on. Just keep pedaling. Just keep growing. Stop looking toward the future of bigger and better things, and just live them now. None of this has been or will be easy or quick and it certainly won’t be comfortable but the only way I’m going to get there is through living in a way that doesn’t betray the things that I’ve learned to be true. Down the line maybe I’ll find someone who wants to live this way too.

I still love William. I still love everything I’ve been through and the means I’ve gotten to where I am. And, because of all that, I need a new bicycle and I need to let those things go. Down the line, maybe I’ll bike across America with someone who wants to take this journey with me.

Lessons from the Provo Tabernacle

I write this fervently and more as a message to myself. It is hard for me to post but as I’ve learned, it does no good for me or others to keep what I believe to myself. This is the crux of what I have been working towards for years.  And though I've learned this many times before, it is now my time to completely give up the person I used to be and fully embrace the one I’ve worked so hard to become. It is my turn to be vulnerable.

When I first saw the tabernacle after the fire, I thought it was a valiant effort to try and restore it but it really didn’t matter to me what would happen to it. I was sure construction crews and the money put in by the church would fix it, but I wondered if it wouldn’t be better just to rebuild from scratch instead of use the empty, forlorn looking shell left. It would just be another historical landmark anyway - dedicated to what ‘once was’ and not to what could be.

When it was announced the tabernacle would be made into a temple, I was surprised. I was even more surprised when construction began and the true state of the tabernacle was revealed. There was literally nothing but a bare shell wearing the scars of the fire. A dead carcass in my eyes. Soon, the foundation was removed and the building stood completely supported by stilts underground. The conical tops to the pillars that had once looked so stately, as though they were praising the heavens, were taken off. Surrounded by the dirt created by the construction crew, the brick looked faded and lifeless. The windows were no more. Even the walls which were deemed ‘salvageable’ looked like they could fall down at anytime.

I regret the way I looked at that building just as I regret the similar way I’ve looked at myself and others.

I drove past the soon-to-be temple last night, after a fire of my own. Feelings of all my inadequacies, past and present, haunted me like the soot from the flame. Hopelessness and guilt I felt had burned away all the good inside me. What would be the point in continuing on? Is there really anything in me worth salvaging? Is there really any good that can come from trying to fix me? How can I, in my current state, bless the lives of others as I’ve been asked to do, especially the lives of ones I deeply love? Not only bless their lives, but fix the hurt I had caused by lighting such a fire. I have ruined everything. If only I could be what I ‘once was’. If only I could return to that state where I was confident in my ability to stand up and keep trying. Where everything had a clear answer and the Truth had a strong hold in my heart. If only I could go back to that crucial moment and choose differently. Before the fire. Before the mistakes. I hadn’t felt such a hopelessness in years – I hadn’t felt so alone, so forgotten. Like no one believed in me or loved me. I certainly did not believe in or love myself.

The role I have been called to play in this life is as a support in other peoples’ lives. It is a gift I have to see the good in others, to understand them, and empower them in their efforts to grow. I don't mean that I'm always perfect in doing those things, but they are my responsibility. Thus, the most devastating trials in my life have been the result of me ignoring the prompting of others’ divine potential, and as a result helping them to set a fire. And in the act, I betray myself. I betray my own potential. I set a greater fire within my own soul and all I can do is wait for the flames to die down. It’s terrifying and painful to feel the burn and responsibility and to watch the destruction of myself and others... knowing that it all could have been avoided by truly loving another and not by acting in fear.

But as I looked at the massive construction sight through my tears and anxiety and loss, something else became clear to me. This hopeless looking building was going to be a temple. It once was a place where people came to worship God, and soon it will be a place of highest sanctity. A place where covenants are made for eternity. God’s house. Even after the destruction of it's initial purpose it will be a holier place. It will take a tremendous amount of work. It will take removing the foundation, the very thing that made it stand all this time, to make room for a new one. It will take removing the characteristics that once made it a work of art – the windows, the roof, the embellishments. It will take removing the wreckage from the inside and starting anew. It will mean standing naked where it has always stood in the center of Provo, for all to see the wreckage and to see the work. It will take the loyalty of those dedicated to fixing it -those who believe in its divine potential. It’s potential to not only be restored but to be greater than it ever was.

The reality is, there is no fire in this life that can leave us without hope for the future. The reality is, like the Provo tabernacle, I can be rebuilt for something greater than I can ever imagine. The reality is, Christ’s atonement can fix anything and though there is work to do, choosing to have faith in that power in the midst of the wreckage is the first step. The hardest part may be believing in yourself and believing in Christ. Being rebuilt may require a new foundation and it will definitely require the humility to let the construction crews come and possibly tear more of you down, see you in your most vulnerable state, and take away parts of your life that you never wanted to lose. It is true, the greater the destruction or trial, the more difficult it will be to have that hope. But from the greater trial comes the greater triumph. Everything that once was lost will be given back to you, and it will surpass everything you’ve ever imagined.

For those struggling in the throws of addiction, the loss of faith, the fires that were set without your control (disease, loss of a loved one, tragedy, etc), the cruelties and inherent unfairness of this life, there is hope. For those confused and afraid, who act in fear and not in love, and those who feel their fire will never end, there is hope. I’ve had but a taste of these things and hardly know or understand them all, but I do know there is someone who understands it all and He has a blueprint for you. There may be fire after fire. There will be setbacks - you will make mistakes. Even in your reconstruction you might fail and have to restart. AND there is still hope. Even if you feel there is only one more brick standing in your life, there is still hope. Be patient with yourself. Be patient with those who you know are struggling. Accept the help from others – you cannot do it alone. Not all is lost and it never will be. You have everything to gain. I have everything to gain. From the fire, there is hope. From the fire, I can learn. From the fire, I can start anew.

From this fire, I can be that temple the Lord wants me to become and that I want to become.

Al Capone

I bought my first car ever yesterday. I can hear all of you saying, “Congratulations! You’re a car owner! That’s so exciting! You have more freedom! Now you won’t get hit on while you’re riding the bus all the time!” And my roommates are simultaneously saying "Great! Now take me grocery shopping!" Don't worry, I will. And thanks guys. Really. I appreciate your support. Though I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the ample amount of attention men gave me on the bus – I’ll take what I can get. But yes, now I own a car and I have absolutely no money and I feel really…. naive.

I heard all the warnings and I vaguely understood the people who told me all car dealers get off by bargaining and overcharging. Lists and lists of advice were given to me and I took them all and forgot most of it. I wasn’t worried. Who would try to rip me off? Sweet, honest me? So I walked in alone with the mistaken confidence of a Little Leaguer playing with the Yankees. I’m an adult, guys. I can handle this myself. I mean look at me: 21 years old, fresh out of college, I have a full time job with benefits, I got a loan with no trouble even though I have no credit. Next on the list is clearly to buy a car. Put me in coach, I'm ready to play. My confidence comes from the idea that if I’m decisive, I have control. Guess what? Being confident and decisive does not guarantee good decision making.

I guess so far in life I’ve gotten by pretty well by being honest with people and I’ve learned that in relationships, being straightforward invites others to be honest as well. Apparently these rules don’t work quite as expected when you’re buying a car. I can be tough and I can say exactly what I want and not accept any other offers, but only genuinely so; not when I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. I’m ashamed to admit, my understanding of cars is limited to how to drive one without dying and to knowing names of things like a “timing belt” but having no clue what they do. So I walked into a deal initially thinking “This is awesome! I’m being so responsible and I’m being an adult and I did research and took care of this all by myself and now I can go grocery shopping WHENEVER I WANT and I don’t have to wake up super early to ride the bus and….” Shortly after, as I drove home from the gas station, realizing I have no more money from my first real paycheck, and realizing I forgot to screw the gas cap back on before I drove home, and as I smelt a burning rubber fume coming from the front of the car, I started to cry.  Tears of distress. Tears I’ve cried before for making out with a boy I didn’t even like. Except this boy is a car and I can’t just wake up the next morning and ignore his phone calls because I owe $4000 to drive him. I’m stuck with him for the foreseeable future and I barely learned his name…

His name is Capone by the way. Like Al Capone. Despite his potential problems and the fear I feel that he’s going to steal all my money, he has a certain amount of class. He’s a 2002 luxury Mitsubishi Diamante, with wood paneling and a smooth, powerful drive. He even looks like he has a mustache. All the reviews I read about cars like him were positive; if there ever was a loyal family car, this is it. But at what cost? And is it true? Or will I end up with a figurative horse head in my bed for taking an offer that probably should’ve been refused? Only time will tell I suppose… So far, I’ve been comforting myself by eating pretzels and cheese (my favorite combination at the moment) and by repeating to myself in the mirror “Liz, this may be a horrible mistake, but it will DEFINITELY not be the worst mistake of your life”. Oddly enough, that is comforting to me even though I have plenty more probably worse experiences than this one to go through…

I’m a firm believer that experience is the best teacher, It’s just hard to accept such a notion when I’m actually experiencing a potentially unpleasant, costly mistake. But as I told a friend about my experience, he simply said “welcome to adulthood”. I guess this is a right of passage of sorts. I can now join the, I’ve-been-hustled-by-a-car-dealer club. And I mean last night I lost my car ownership virginity which is quite a feat. Let’s just hope Capone was the guy to put out for.

I think I need to go biking.