Switch flippers

    Alright, the other day some friends and  I were talking about what we find attractive in the opposite sex.  As we went around sharing what we think is attractive, I cast my mind around, composing a list of what I had seen that I found attractive.  Just for kicks, here is my list;
        Broomstick skirts; way cute, especially if they are white.  I don't know why, but a girl wearing a broomstick skirt with matching flat soled shoes just makes me tick.

        Slightly curly hair is way seductive.  If she has curly hair naturally, the opposite is true; if she straitens it, way cute.  Just switching it up once in a while is catchy.

        Dancing.  For some reason, I think that  a moderate level of kinetic intelligence is way sexy.  Secretly I watch girls just dance to music in their kitchens while doing dishes and think "they have no idea what they are doing".

        If she can sing.  Nothing too fancy, but if she can carry a tune well, major points.  Maybe it's because music is so important and inpactful

        if she is good with kids.  If she can handle well a screaming child on the living room floor, kicking a writhing, major points.  My mother only raised her voice when we needed it.  I find that attractive in girls as well.

        Moderate cooking abilities.  I know this one isn't that important, but again, I'm impressed when a girl can cook.

       Isn't afraid to challenge herself.  It's impressive to see a girl who wants to challenge herself, that wants to educate herself and become somebody.

       Most importantly, she takes the whole gospel package seriously.  If the gospel and the Lord come before the guy they love, major major points. 
      Predictably, most of these attributes exist in my own mother.  My older sister influences this list as well. 
       I hope that this has not come off as being extremely chauvinistic or sexist, It was just fun to think about.  I know that girls are interested to know what guys find attractive, and I hope the reverse is true.  I understand that its me that ought to be worrying about who I am. 

One year home

      It's happened; I've been home from my mission a year today.  That's kind of a milestone.  When people ask you how long you have been home, you can say "oh, I've been home a year now".  That's a respectable amount.  I imagine that, especially when girls hear you say that, they think 'alright, he's been home long enough to get over that greeny RM stage and is now in full swing of things'.
       Everyone asks you "what is the number one thing you learned on your mission?"  I'd like to alter that question a little; "what is the number one thing that you have learned in your first year being back?"
       Considering that I have spend most of that year in school, living away from home, dating, being in and out of relationships, and trying to figure out the future, I am left with this axiom; accept nothing but your best.  Anything less is you being lazy.  I frankly want to shout at those who say "Cs get degrees".  I'd go one step further and say "your level of discipleship to Jesus Christ can be measured by your efforts to achieve success in all aspects of your life."  If you aren't trying your best in everything, you aren't taking full advantage of the life God has given you.
       Now obviously, there is room for imperfection, thank goodness.  The Lord can tolerate our imperfection if we live the principle of repentance.  But come now, you'll be happiest if you honestly try your best.  It's actually kind of fun!

Come to the edge...

      When I was in the MTC, I watched a fireside with Elder Holland speaking about missionary work.  Among other things he shared, he recounted an experience he had with his wife.  To my best recollection here is what he said;
       "The other day my wife shared a poem with me that she found.  It was originally written is French, so she translated it for me.  The poem goes like this;
     
       Come to the edge
                   no, will fall
        come to the edge
                   no, will fall
       come to the edge!
               So, we came
              He pushed us
              and we flew..."
 
       I love this poem. What do you think this poem is trying to say?  When the poem invites you to come to the edge, what are they talking about?
        Elder Holland related later that each one of us are often required to come to our personal edge.  The edge is where we step into the twilight of uncertainty and the limit of our understanding.  It's those leaps of faith that are so very scary to us.  Be it deciding to take a certain job, to move across the country, to marry a certain person, to have a child when bidden, to accept a calling, to invite the less active to return to church; it can be any of these things.
     He described the edge as being the place where miracles are performed, where lives are changed, where people are healed, where differences are made, where real power is manifest, where the Savior always was, and where the Savior commands that we come.  I love that idea.
      The best thing about the edge is that we can go there every day. Just little things, like heeding the idea of talking to someone you don't know, of asking them how their day is.  It can be summoning the courage to make a remark to a friend that they need, but perhaps do not want.  It can be making the decision to get outside of your comfort zone.  It's making the decision to exercise a little more faith everyday.   I'd like to say that I have been conducting experiments with this idea lately, and it has yielded some pretty remarkable experiences.  Every day is an edge day!
     So if you come to the edge sometime in the near future, I'd love to hear about it!

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.