When girls cry

    The lyrics come to mind "and IIIII'l be your crying shoulder...".  For one reason or another, over the past two weeks I have provided the crying shoulder for a surprising number of my female friends.  It's all from family issues to homework overload to roommate frustrations to just needing a moment to cry.
         Watching a girl cry is an awful thing; you can feel the bitter and sad and frightened emotions coursing through their bodies as you hold them gently and try to offer consolation.  I wish that I could get inside their heart for a minute and sooth their upset feelings.  The best I can do is hold them and breath gently, just willing some of their pain to go away. As much as I want to I cannot share with them wholly the serenity and collectedness that they so desperately need.
       It's somehow soothing to me to be able to comfort someone in tears.  It's almost as if I'm descending on their roller-coaster of emotion with them.  When they begin to calm down and dry their eyes, it's as if I am feeling the same relief they are.  I'll ask "are you okay?  It's all going to be okay.  Is there anything I can do to help?"
        I am grateful for my shift on the waaah-bulance these past two weeks.  I know how much I like it when someone can hear me out, and doing it for someone else is the next best thing.  I walk away from their apartment feeling more peaceful and calm and closer to the Spirit than I did before.

Fatigue

      The war between the semester and I is almost over; four more weeks.  Though it has been aggressive, it's now a familiar day-to-day skirmish to hold the line.  The enemy and I are very well acquainted by now.  We see each other at 7:45 every day, and tiredly say "well, ready to go at it again?"
      But there is one unforeseen problem; I'm getting tired.  It kind of feels like the mission again, knowing that tomorrow will be another tough day, and your initial burning desire to rock the labors ahead of you is something only remembered.  I know I have two tests and two papers due in several days, and up till now I have been consistently able to do well on them.  The problem now is I don't care.
     How do you counter this kind of fatigue-induced apathy?  Any ideas?  So far I've resorted to the very 'Spencer like enthusiasm' that you are all familiar with, the boyish energy that says "yahoo! This is the best day ever! Lets go rock n' sock em'!"  I'm sure you are all rolling your eyes and saying 'yep, that's Spencer'.  But hey, it works, and I think it's fun.
       Tomorrow yields another 15 hours of war.  (Sigh).

James Martin Priest

      My grandfather, James Martin Priest, passed away on June 9th at 2:30 pm in the Utah Valley Regional Medical Center of complications with pneumonia, at the age of 84.
      There is a lot to say about his passing.  Though most of the feelings and emotions involved are recorded in my journal, these few thoughts I deemed worthy of share.
        A few weeks ago I stopped by my grandparents house on my way back up to Idaho.  As I pulled into the driveway, the thought crossed my mind 'this may be the last time for you to be with Grandpa'.  heeding this thought, I was sure to thank him during my visit for leading such a wonderful life.  I was sure to say 'I love you' when I left.  I got back in the car thinking 'I hope that was enough'.
        Dad called me the day before he passed away; 'Grandpa isn't doing too well' dad said, 'I really don't think that he's going to make it'.  I said 'when you get to the hospital, could you put me on the phone with him?'  I got a text a short saying 'Grandpa can hardly hear and hardly talk, so he sends his regards without the call'.  I thought for a moment about what I really wanted to say to him.  I texted back 'could you tell Grandpa that I'll be forever grateful for his decision to join the church?'  I fought back tears, realizing how much Grandpa had effected my life.
        The next day I got my fathers text saying 'Grandpa died'.  I left class and found a quiet place where I could have a moment of silence.
      During the final moments before they closed the casket, Grandma tearfully approached the still, peaceful figure of Grandpa, dressed in his temple clothing and lying on beautiful white cushions.  She put her hand on his chest and said "I love you Jim", and leaned down and kissed him.  Pulling away she paused and said in a quiet voice "later gater".  I grinned at Grandma's jovial remark.  It hit me how much she loved him, and how they really were, after all, best friends.  It was a sweet moment.
       Grandma and Grandpa were as old fashioned as it is possible to be.  There is something very sweet about the way they would kiss after blessing the food; it's as if you got to see something profoundly simple and beautiful, like an orchid in full bloom.  It was as if the plain and simple essence of love had decided to show itself, if only for a moment. Grandma would take his plate after dinner was over, and Grandpa would say "thanks mom, that was good".  They were always together.  They would tease and jest with each other during their conversations.  Finally Grandma would say "now listen here sir, you knock that off!"  Priceless.
       I love Grandpa, what a great example of a quiet and charitable man.  I don't know how to most appropriately honor him.  The greatest thing I have from him is his last name, and all that that means; faith, service, hard work, honesty, duty, kindness, and humility.  I'd like to live my life so that Grandpa can be pleased with what I've done with his name.

       Over memorial day weekend, I went home to get away from school for a bit, and to help my sister move into her new home (it reminds me of some kind of children's cottage, perfect for the Williams family).  I spent some time with dad, talking about medical school and related subjects.  I got to play with my little nieces, the cutest two year olds on the planet.  In the evenings I watched some of these really cool nature documentaries with my pop, all about deep sea ecosystems and the ways the dolphins hunt sardines.  Way cool, the little boy in me was fascinated (and to be honest, so was the big boy inside of me).
        On Saturday morning I answered the phone and was asked to take this little survey about how often I read the newspaper.  I thought to myself 'well, these poor phone-surveyors need to talk to somebody; I can give them a few minutes'.  I talked to this lady for a while, just answering her questions about my newspaper reading habits (which are almost non-existent).  Mid conversation, the thought came to me "you need to talk to this woman about the church".  I knew that this woman was almost certanly not a member; the fact that she was working as a telemarketer showed that she was trying to support a family of some kind, to the point that she would assume such a non-glorious and tedious job.   I frantically tried to think of a way to introduce my testimony or some kind of missionary segway into the conversation in as much of a natural way as possible, while trying to subdue my apprehension of doing so.  I waited too long.  She thanked me for my time and hung up, leaving me still postulating over how I was going to share something.
        I was very disappointed; you rarely encounter the opportunity to share something, and I just missed one, because I wasn't prepared with what to say, and I waited too long.
       A moment later the perfect segway came to mind.  While talking to this woman, I could tell that she was honestly appreciative and impressed that I had taken some time to answer her questions, and that I had been kind about it.  That was my opportunity.  I should have said "I thought that I could make a difference for you today; I'm sure that you get hung up on all the time, and that can be frustrating.  I wanted you to be able to go home and say 'work was tough, but there was one Mormon boy that was very kind to me today on the phone.'  That is what life is all about, showing kindness and compassion to others.  That is something that I strongly believe in." 
       From there you listen to her response, and questions would follow, about if she knew any members of our church, if she had ever heard of the Book of Mormon.  It was such a good opportunity, but I missed it.
     In a later discussion with my roommate about the incident, he remarked "well, live your life so that taking advantage of opportunities like that is typical".  He is so right.  We need to have fire-drill like responses to opportunities to share what we know is true, where we immediately recognize a chance to say something and say it.  It is natural to be apprehensive, but the great part of missionary work is that it isn't your invitation that you are extending, it is His.  When you bare testimony or invite others to learn more, you are doing it quite literally in the name of the Savior, as if He were there to do it Himself.  With this in mind, it isn't nearly as scary to share the gospel, because you have the Master standing right beside you.  It's His invitation, not yours.  I personally feel very uncomfortable talking to less active members about coming back to church, but when I realize it's the Savior and not me inviting them, it becomes far less scary, and even a sacred experience.  What more authority do you need than the Master's?!  You just need to be careful that you are always doing His work, and not your own.  Doing your work and pretending to have the authority of the Savior is very dangerous.
      Anyway, I hope that this was interesting to read.

Isn't it about.....Time.

      The war goes well on the Idaho front; the previously mentioned battles in the last entry were fought and subdued. The blitz worked.  At the end of the battle, I had a moment to pause, thank heaven that I had succeeded, and realize that it couldn't get much harder than this.
      The Lord has blessed me with a friendly personality.  As a result I enjoy making a lot of friends up here, from talking to the person in front of me in line to meeting someone in the laundry room.  I have a few good friends/fellow soldiers in my harder classes with whom I study quite often.  I have learned to truly care for and love them.  It's been said that nothing makes brothers faster than blood and sweat.
       I watch my friends day to day, hear them talk about their lives and their worries.  There appears to be a reoccurring theme amongst them; a crisis of time management.  I hear their accounts of staying up way past midnight to finish a project or get a paper turned in on time.  I see them fall asleep in classes and yawning incessantly through the day.  My heart breaks for them.  Watching your comrades in arms succumb to the attrition of time is hard.
       I am doubly sorry for them, because upon some introspection, I realize that I do not share their problem; through either divine mercy on my behalf or luck of the draw, I never have to compromise my sleep nor (too much) of my free time in order to keep my head above water.  I go to bed at ten thirty and get up at seven.  I study in the Manwaring center or in the library.  I have never pulled an all-nighter in order to finish anatomy homework.  Am I grateful?  Without question.
     I wish I had some profound insight to provide regarding the expenditure and investment of time, especially in the context of college, but I none to give, save a thought or two earned by experience.  If they apply to you, then by all means use them;
         Never let a problem to be solved be more important than a person to be loved (a direct quote from President Monson).
         Even if it's late and things aren't all the way done, just go to bed.  To quote Jurassic Park "life finds a way".
         The two best tutors in life are hard work and discipline. 
         Find joy every day.
        When in doubt, just make out (Colby will like that one).
  Perhaps cliche, but if so, then they are cliche because their right.  Feel free to add your own bits of wisdom.  (And I'm kidding about the last one there- it's kind of the apartment motto right now that nobody acts upon).

Anat/phys and Microbio join forces...

       This Wednesday and Thursday will witness the first casualties of this little war of mine; both anat/phys and microbio have tests during those days.  I see that the enemy has been corresponding, and have agreed to launch their first waves of assault simultaneously, hoping to spread my defenses thin.  They don't know about my secret weapon, one that has saved me in times past.  I requires little more than a switch to turn on and runs of off pure grit; I call it "the 10:30 library blitz". 
      The 10:30 library blitz is a strategy adopted by the most elite academic infantry; it's pretty simple, just pack up your gear and some granola bars, and hit the library from about 6:00 to 10:30 in the evening.  Four and a half hours more of study.  That's some serious firepower. 
      Needless to say, I fully intend to implement this strategy this week.  Some solders think I'm crazy.  To them I say "alright, lets talk after the test..."

       Ever since I was fifteen I have loved to play that guitar; I've been in bands, orchestras, blue grass ensembles and mariachi groups.  I took lessons from a professional for a year while teaching at a local music store.  Through it all I have discovered my favorite styles and techniques of playing, which include finger-style instrumental and jamming away at lead guitar. 
     I have also discovered that I don't write songs very well.  There is a big difference between writing a song and playing one.  Some professional song writers only play the piano, if they play an instrument at all!  They are two different talents.  Successful bands often include a healthy and unique mix of the two talents.
       Longs story short, I haven't written a song for over two years, consigning myself to learning the hymns and other instrumental arrangements.  However, about two weeks ago I got the idea of writing a song.  I brushed it off, thinking 'my songs are so cheesy and shmarmy, I don't want to put people through that'.  A few days later the feeling came back.  I jotted down a few lines of struggling poetry about how special this place (BYU-I) is to me.  Coming up with a melody to a completely original song can sometimes require a lot of experimentation, always done while completely alone so no one can hear you.  At length I had the idea of what I wanted the song to be.
       The day after my rough draft was completed, I get a call from a friend; 'we are looking for people to try out for our next acoustic show, and I was wondering if you would like to audition'.  The way it came across left me with no doubt that this is what the song had been written for.  I accepted the invitation, and worked frantically that night to refine and polish my few lines of poetry.  The idea came that the lyrics applied to how I feel about my mission just as much as they did to how I feel about Rexburg.  The topic switched to how I felt leaving the mission and what I left behind.  One line includes;
    "but heaven knows what I left behind, all the faith that I possessed, and the joy of saving life and feeling saved".
        I auditioned and was accepted into the show.  I was touched by the whole process.  I thought "why would I get promptings concerning such a silly and small thing like writing a song for a little acoustic gig?"  It strengthened my testimony that Father is concerned with the details of our lives, even the ones that serve strictly emotional purposes. 
        For whoever wants to come, next Saturday is the show, there will be posters up on campus.  If you come I hope you enjoy it.