tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10966931302727266232024-03-13T07:52:30.656-07:00Kate Expectations Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comBlogger254125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-43474878591655514422022-04-21T17:30:00.010-07:002022-04-21T18:24:08.302-07:00A Brother Like No Other <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Written by my mother Susan Foutz, <br />who would like to clarify that she actually has two brothers like no other )</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p>If you lived in Arizona in the 80s, 90s or 2000s, Kent Dana was probably in your home every night at 6 and 10 p.m., reporting the news. To many he was a famous local anchor but to me, he was my beloved big brother. Being the fifth of seven children, I sometimes fought for recognition in a large family. Kent was definitely the antidote for that. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-AenlY1rBdKvIcj6iyok3iOMfb_mQyEfgaeO72A_ANYWLhoR1YnIyrYyyBFz6oCE3lGAmosecWyVu39Q3deO6u3VahffAktRxE05WOvG71zA4WLE6aMWY8cKjbD6UDr_EPGQY7GeSf1-F_D2bBCnZhTC9TGbbxdkxy0tnkYnkUsq6EnUBNCWLSGBT/s1280/Danas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1031" data-original-width="1280" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-AenlY1rBdKvIcj6iyok3iOMfb_mQyEfgaeO72A_ANYWLhoR1YnIyrYyyBFz6oCE3lGAmosecWyVu39Q3deO6u3VahffAktRxE05WOvG71zA4WLE6aMWY8cKjbD6UDr_EPGQY7GeSf1-F_D2bBCnZhTC9TGbbxdkxy0tnkYnkUsq6EnUBNCWLSGBT/w400-h323/Danas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Back row, left to right - Reed, Carol, Kent, Judy, Susan<br />Bottom row - Marilyn, Joe, Kathleen, Dora </span></div><br /><p>A favorite early memory of Kent, is of him at the helm of our family boat. I was always in the far back with the biggest, most reliable life jacket available, shaking with fear that any minute we would capsize and our family would be lost to Saguaro Lake. I have never been a lover of water sports like most of my siblings, and prefer hiking on solid ground in the mountains of Greer, Arizona, our family's favorite vacation spot. </p><p>On one trip to the lake, Kent announced that it was time for me to learn to water ski. No thank you, was my response. But Kent was a master of persuasion, and when it came to teaching skiing he had a perfect record. Before I could resist, he was in the water with me, adjusting the skis. After dozens and dozens of tries, and me swallowing gallons of lake water, he told me we were not leaving until I was able to stay up. Lo and behold, I finally got up. My self esteem soared, and I have never stopped bragging that I can ski despite my water anxiety. </p><p>Kent always make me feel important. When he was in Uruguay on a Church mission he would frequently write letters just to me. I still have each one. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikh4LzOIPR0k92qH4iD4ksJUFg6etyz4QkUoHQ4BKLccaVTy6_C87OQsf6IcubE3ULu5MY_I0ZKzy9YS6Vxyc7MnwC5_AH6tLffLG2yz0FWVGjdJmg4LtqjAdZEvbVbyOnEEy6gXVuMXAoQePU6fNzMGKe39Ou3E8JcVi9OaOMBI8u1n3h32iaSfaG/s1280/Kentletter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikh4LzOIPR0k92qH4iD4ksJUFg6etyz4QkUoHQ4BKLccaVTy6_C87OQsf6IcubE3ULu5MY_I0ZKzy9YS6Vxyc7MnwC5_AH6tLffLG2yz0FWVGjdJmg4LtqjAdZEvbVbyOnEEy6gXVuMXAoQePU6fNzMGKe39Ou3E8JcVi9OaOMBI8u1n3h32iaSfaG/s320/Kentletter.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><p><br />The following is an excerpt from one of my favorites - </p><p>"I want to propose a plan. When I get home, you will be 16 and a half and well into your social life. From what I predict, you will be quite a beautiful young lady. As you know, your big brother will be quite out of it as far as dating manners, latest dance steps, where to go, etc., so I want to ask your help. I want to take you out before anyone else so you can correct me in my blundering. I will be a social left foot and will need up to date advice, will you do it?" </p><p>He was always a loyal cheerleader in my life, and could bring light to any dark day with his contagious laugh and optimistic outlook. </p><p>In April of 1973, Kent called me to announce the birth of his third child, a daughter, and said her name would be Susan. As tears flowed, my husband thought there had been a tragedy, when actually, I had just received the greatest compliment. </p><p>In the early 90s, he was interviewed by the Arizona Republic.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FdzeXKmfVGoczXR9AgLfksREF6-tw2fR19_OdUWrm_QhOBa_e0bLgOtwJcds-SHX5IGG5jWzrhtG_crZkJV-FTX9sqO0ckJU8Ti9sFNK52RduKV5mZgdyAkCp1HQhJ_YD69GAqznjzMYchFVGhYU6Ol-S8qS0zEhgS-LW4WJ6bMHO-9MujXPMInp/s1280/KentRepublic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FdzeXKmfVGoczXR9AgLfksREF6-tw2fR19_OdUWrm_QhOBa_e0bLgOtwJcds-SHX5IGG5jWzrhtG_crZkJV-FTX9sqO0ckJU8Ti9sFNK52RduKV5mZgdyAkCp1HQhJ_YD69GAqznjzMYchFVGhYU6Ol-S8qS0zEhgS-LW4WJ6bMHO-9MujXPMInp/w320-h400/KentRepublic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>The reporter asked him, “What is your most memorable meal?” and he answered - </p><p>“A holiday meal at my sister Susan’s house. She invited all our siblings and their spouses over. She put on a feast and a demonstration that I have never even seen in a restaurant. She went above and beyond, she blew us away.” </p><p>He may have been prone to exaggeration but he sure knew how to make his little sister have a good day. Actually, he knew how to make everyone have a good day. </p><p>He even lifted me up on the very worst day of my life. On November 11, 2002, my beloved husband Jim suddenly passed away. Kent immediately left the news station and was the first to arrive at the hospital. I will never forget the bear hug he gave me and the tears he shed with me. I think that was the moment I knew that somehow I might survive. </p><p>In the twenty years since, his phone calls and support have lifted me up and helped me go on. Kent’s compassion and kindness was unparalleled. I will always be grateful for the joy he brought to my life, and his unwavering love and support. </p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-37631199910523460842021-09-26T11:02:00.006-07:002021-09-26T13:12:35.379-07:00Frozen Faith <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DdRZmmcmdGA/YVCsQPRCfPI/AAAAAAACIPs/odmSz6-yDQgCHMByDyoR3oBpZlrROTb9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s612/cold.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="612" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DdRZmmcmdGA/YVCsQPRCfPI/AAAAAAACIPs/odmSz6-yDQgCHMByDyoR3oBpZlrROTb9gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/cold.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Shortly after Jack and I were married we faced the decision of where he would attend graduate school, and set out to tour the colleges on our list. </span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-70b877a1-7fff-a3b5-76b0-f6672622efad"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One trip, to Ithaca New York, had me particularly excited. I had never been to New York, and even higher on my bucket list than the Big Apple was a little town in upstate called Palmyra. In my faith, Palmyra is considered a sacred place, and central to our understanding of Jesus Christ. I realized we would be staying just about 70 miles away, and added an extra day to the itinerary. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The morning of our tour we woke to what we would later learn was the worst ice storm New York had seen in over ten years. Flights were grounded, roads closed, and travel </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">advisories flashed across every station on the TV. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">We would have to be idiots to attempt the drive. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Which is exactly what we were. Against our better judgement and the stern admonishment of the front desk clerk at the hotel, we loaded up the rental car and hoped for the best.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was the worst. 70 miles of white knuckling, sliding on black ice and wondering what our life insurance beneficiary would do with their meager payout. Three hours later, somehow, we arrived in one piece. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The site, referred to as the Sacred Grove, was deserted. Not a single car in the parking lot. We walked around and knocked on one of the little log homes, and an elderly guide opened the door. I have visited plenty of historical church sites in my life, and this was for sure the first time I was greeted with, "What are you doing here?"</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He said that for the first time as far as he was aware, the Sacred Grove was deemed too dangerous for visitors, and closed. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And that was that. Rather than spending our much-anticipated visit among the beautiful grove of trees, we got to spend about twenty minutes standing in the parking lot, looking at it from across a field. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had seen depictions of the Sacred Grove my entire life, and imagined what this moment would be like. Our visit was in April, which was serendipitous. Surely it would be warm, with streaming rays of light brightening my path. The leaves I imagined would be every shade of green with just enough wind to make them dance. I was certain there would be butterflies. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Instead I huddled, shivering, in a cement parking lot with the view of a frozen gray storm. Every few minutes a branch would crack under the enormous weight of ice and crash to the ground. My fingers were numb, and I dreaded the drive back. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">According to every circumstance, I should have felt disappointed by the failure of my one and only opportunity. But as I watched those falling branches I instead felt an overwhelming, reassuring feeling of peace and happiness that belied my surroundings. To this day it remains one of my most treasured memories. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Faith for me never has been the result of circumstance or logic. I learned then and life has confirmed since that faith is what steps in when circumstances fail. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The sun rarely shines down in perfect rays, and butterflies have yet to dance around my head. But when it's gray and cold and I can't feel my fingers, faith in Jesus Christ has been the compensating force that makes bad days better, rough relationships smoother, and even the most unsettling routes somehow worth the journey. </span></p><br /></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-78393759031745304122021-09-10T19:02:00.007-07:002021-09-11T13:06:06.142-07:00Good Vibes at Valley Forge <p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My mother’s side of the family are Danas. This is a heritage, I was taught growing up, that brings with it some notable claims to fame. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-77989004-7fff-03a0-91ad-a20e570f98aa"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Take my great uncle Danny Herrera, for instance, who invented the margarita (true story). He first concocted it in the late 1940's at Rancho La Gloria, his resort in Mexico, where my mom would visit in the summer as a child. To this day my cousins and I all wish each other a Happy National Margarita Day every February 22nd, although as sober Latter-day Saints most of us have never actually tried one. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Another source of Dana pride is that my grandfather Joe Dana, after whom I and my daughter are named, once fired his gun at an approaching bear who went down on the first shot. Though it was clearly dead, no bullet hole could be found until the taxidermist discovered that it had gone in one ear and out the other. If you don’t believe me, the skin was turned into a rug that has been passed around the family for decades and can currently be found in my sister Jane’s guest room closet. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the family lore that made me proudest was that this same grandfather was lifelong friends with the great artist Arnold Friberg, and was the inspiration for the physical build of George Washington when he painted his magnum opus, Prayer at Valley Forge. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PxhHSQBc9Gw/YTuCFDxDs_I/AAAAAAACIDY/rivg3aRZb74h1jyPX9RGq0s6C1XmJPp7gCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="960" height="249" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PxhHSQBc9Gw/YTuCFDxDs_I/AAAAAAACIDY/rivg3aRZb74h1jyPX9RGq0s6C1XmJPp7gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h249/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The physique of Grandpa Joe in this painting is unmistakable, particularly the unique size and shape of his hands. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The president of Friberg Art once recalled a time that the painting was lying on the floor of a printer’s studio when a security guard passed by. He studied it for some time then said, “You feel the prayer in his hands. He got it.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I couldn’t agree more. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">George Washington is typically portrayed in heroic fashion and rightfully so, looking like the father of our nation that he is. In my textbooks in school I remember he was always shown overlooking a victorious battlefield, or on the back of a charging horse, or proudly presenting the Constitution. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But in Prayer at Valley Forge, he is at his lowest. Frozen, defeated, and no doubt weighed down by the responsibility of leading his equally frozen and defeated troops to safety. Fallen to his knees, in a moment of desperation, he pleads with God for help.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Friberg’s Washington looks humble. Prayerful. And by 2021 standards, perhaps a little controversial. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wonder, what if modern social media scrutiny existed in 1778, and someone hiding in the snow captured this moment and uploaded it to Twitter. What sort of debate would it spark? Could it have hurt his chances of becoming president years later? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Possibly. Prayer certainly didn’t help Mike Pence in matters of public opinion while serving in the White House. Last year, during a meeting of the coronavirus task force, he led the group in prayer. Someone snapped a picture that went viral and triggered a stampede of criticism. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You can’t pray this away,” someone Tweeted. “We are so screwed,” wrote another. Honestly, the general consensus of reactions reminded me of Nacho Libre’s sidekick Esquelito when he said, “I don’t believe in God. I believe in science," which, by the way, was supposed to be funny. Isn't there room to believe in both? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don't think Mike Pence was praying to escape his responsibility in the pandemic any more than George Washington was praying as a strategy to avoid confronting the British. I believe that prayer is a component of our efforts, not an alternative to them. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I love the way Pope Francis put this when he said, “You pray for the hungry. Then you feed them. That is how prayer works.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think there can be a place in the political sphere for prayer without blurring the lines between church and state, the separation of which is one of our greatest freedoms. Prayer is an incredibly encompassing term. There are limitless possibilities of how a person might pray or to what source, and protections for those who choose not to pray at all. One of the primary tenets of my own faith is the privilege of worshiping according to our own conscience, and allowing others the same - “let them worship how, where or what they may.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I just wonder though, how prayer went from a natural expression and condolence we offer one another, to an awkward question of whether offense might be taken. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why people on social media are far more likely to send or solicit “thoughts and good vibes” than they are prayer. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When you Google "sending prayers," in fact, several of the top search results are </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">lists of alternative phrases you can use that omit the word prayer altogether. Because heaven forbid. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still, in spite of all the noise, I believe that Prayer at Valley Forge is timeless. I don't know what Washington said in that moment of desperation, but the closest comparison of my lifetime was twenty years ago, watching an equally desperate President Bush address the nation of the evening of September 11th. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I remember sitting on the couch of my apartment in a dreamlike state, haunted by the images I had seen that day, and only beginning to understand how the world and my perception of it had changed. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I couldn't imagine the weight on President Bush's shoulders. No amount of eloquence in his address would have been enough to comfort Americans that night. No call for vengeance or promise to rebuild sufficient. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">And so he said - </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“<i>Today our nation saw evil - the very worst of human nature - and we responded with the best of America.</i></span></p><i><br /></i><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Tonight I ask for your prayers for all those who grieve, for the children whose worlds have been shattered, for all whose sense of safety and security has been threatened. And I pray they will be comforted by a power greater than any of us</i>.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Two decades later and more than two centuries after Valley Forge, we are still at times witness to the worst of human nature. And when we are, I'm grateful for a "power greater than any of us," and for the right to say God bless America, and mean it. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p></span><div><span><br /></span></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-44059732874802530422021-03-26T18:42:00.002-07:002021-03-26T18:47:16.652-07:00(Real) Real Housewives of SLC - Traci <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOj1-HC0gt0/YF6K2dtuWzI/AAAAAAACHvE/l-_cOykA98klH3dek_fK3PC8Ak_YZUxIgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1188/traci.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="739" data-original-width="1188" height="249" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOj1-HC0gt0/YF6K2dtuWzI/AAAAAAACHvE/l-_cOykA98klH3dek_fK3PC8Ak_YZUxIgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h249/traci.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">
If you live or pass through Herriman Utah, there’s a good chance you’ve seen Corey. And if you’ve seen Corey, there’s a good chance it’s made you nervous. </span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-2f4b5b31-7fff-7674-6157-3d2165635210"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be clear, it’s not Corey himself that will make you nervous. Corey is kind, respectful and soft spoken. But those who see him crossing the road worry for his safety, and for good reason. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Corey is confined to a manual wheelchair that he pushes along with his feet. His errands, which are the highlight of his daily routine, require him to cross the Mountain View Corridor, a busy highway through which cars pass at an upwards of 70 miles per hour. The time it takes him to scoot his way across the intersection is perilously close to the time it takes the signal to turn from red to green. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Passersby who notice Corey frequently pull over out of concern, offering to push or give him a ride, but he always respectfully declines.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Guys, the wheelchair guy has been seen both yesterday and today,” wrote one member of the community Facebook group Herriman Happenings, in February. “He was pushing himself down three inches of snow on the sidewalk and snow blowing sideways. What the heck?” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Respondents to the post had compassion, but were quick to point out that attempts to assist him had been rebuffed. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He does not want help” said one member, “It has been offered many times and he says no.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He won’t take help,” said another. “I think he just wants to be left alone.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Traci Paoli, a Herriman resident and mother of two, was scrolling Facebook when she came across the post. She had also noticed Corey crossing the street and felt helpless to assist him. Reading through the thread, it seemed that offering help was pointless. But instead of feeling discouraged, it made her determined. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So many people really had tried their best,” she says. “But no one is beyond help.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is a lesson Traci has learned firsthand. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's been said that challenges come in threes, and if that’s true Traci’s trio began in January of 2013, when her daughter was hospitalized for RSV. After a week long stay they were relieved to return home, when her son also became suddenly ill. What first appeared to be an upset stomach turned out to be a Little League football injury to his abdomen that resulted in a harrowing 28-day hospitalization, including three stomach surgeries and a week in the PICU. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Grateful that both children recovered fully, the family was barely able to catch their breath when Traci was diagnosed with breast cancer. The year that followed was agonizing, as she faced an uncertain future, along with chemotherapy and a double mastectomy. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I know what it’s like to need help,” she says, “but I wasn’t very good at accepting it.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now a seven-year survivor, she has learned to not take no for an answer, and her heart immediately went out to Corey. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Traci began to ask questions, which led her to connect with other women who had begun the process of seeking help. “She truly took the bull by the horns,” one of them said. “We knew our goals were ambitious, but Traci reached for the stars.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While recovering from double foot surgeries, she spent hours on the phone, reaching out to Corey’s mother, who is also in a wheelchair, to asses his specific needs. She also contacted Cypress Credit Union for help soliciting donations, and lobbied Herriman and Riverton cities for greater measures to ensure his safety. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, she said, “Help just seemed to come from the heavens.” An employee of Cypress offered to visit Corey and his mother in their home to assist with paperwork. A representative of National Seating Mobility with twenty years experience also offered in-home help. Harmons Grocery, where Corey shops daily, assembled his favorite products as a gift. A new winter coat was donated, and gloves, and shoes. Another had a custom flag made for his wheelchair to alert traffic to his crossing. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It goes to show that people really did want to help,” says Traci. "They just didn’t have the right opportunity.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Within a matter of weeks, over $4,000 was contributed, enough to purchase a new, safer wheelchair custom made to Corey’s specifications. His aunt, Colleen Blackburn, says, “To hear that people see him and want to help makes my heart glad. God does answer prayers.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When asked about the impact she has had on Corey, Traci is quick to deflect attention away from herself, and shine the spotlight on others who made the effort possible. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I grew up in Utah," she says, "so I’ve always known that good, friendly people live here. But I don’t think I ever realized how good or how friendly until this experience.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is how we do it here. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do you know someone you would like to nominate for <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2020/09/real-housewives-of-salt-lake.html">(Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake City</a>? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katie.f.erb.1">message me on Facebook! </a></span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-56924733701033604512021-03-09T16:43:00.029-08:002021-03-22T08:49:35.917-07:00(Real) Real Housewives of SLC - Dawn & Emily <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B3fUe3GFibg/YEgTdh_kDhI/AAAAAAACHtE/_Y995sAMyok4rSCxnD33z7U8o31spctdgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1188/RHT.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="988" data-original-width="1188" height="333" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B3fUe3GFibg/YEgTdh_kDhI/AAAAAAACHtE/_Y995sAMyok4rSCxnD33z7U8o31spctdgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h333/RHT.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you stand in the driveway of Dawn Mangum’s house, you can see roads from all four directions leading to it. It’s a fitting metaphor for the alternative paths by which she has arrived at her life there. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-066edc16-7fff-9c4a-d051-c57c4c368a50"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Eighteen years ago, after the joy of adopting her first child with her husband and plans for a large family, she suddenly found herself as a single mom. “I was alone in a tiny apartment with this baby,” she said. “Working nights, eating Spaghettios, just doing whatever I could to get by.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To give herself a break, she said she began to “very awkwardly” take her daughter along to church activities for singles, where she said she was lucky to reconnect with Rick, a friend from high school, and the two were married. After a years long-struggle with infertility, her joy was complete when they learned they were expecting a son, and she was able to enjoy a happy, uncomplicated pregnancy.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Two months before the baby was to arrive, Dawn became concerned about his movement, and scheduled an appointment to be monitored. What followed, she said, “was a whirlwind of chaos and shock.” She was suddenly surrounded by teams of doctors, wheeled in for emergency surgery, and “before I could even figure out what day his birthday would be,” learned that her son, whom they named Matthew, did not survive. “My world shattered into a million pieces that day.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meanwhile, halfway around the world in Metehara, Ethiopia, a young girl named Hawi was facing her own whirlwind of chaos and shock. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She had lost her mother to HIV at age two, and both grandparents by age eight. Sent to live with the family of a step uncle, Hawi endured immense challenges until one night, at age eleven, she found an opportunity to escape</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">, scaling the concrete wall that surrounded the home. From there, she made the brave decision to take a path around a lake which was said by the natives to be haunted, because she knew others would be too afraid to search for her there. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She then hitchhiked the two-hour ride to her birth city, hoping to find her father. Miraculously, she encountered a friend of her late mother there, who immediately recognized her because of the resemblance, and safely led her to an orphanage. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally out of harm's way, Hawi began to thrive. She is incredibly intelligent, and was soon the top student in her class. English came easily. She would often sneak off to a hut in the middle of the night to practice it by watching American television, where she first heard the name Emily and decided that's she would call herself. Hawi, which means "Hope," is now her middle name. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Emily became proficient as a translator, and for years assisted parents as they came in to adopt. Usually young children. Rarely teenagers. Never her. Now 14-years old, she was just one year away from being aged out of the orphanage with no options for the future. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">By this time Dawn and Rick had gone on to welcome three more daughters. With their four girls and a peace about their son Matthew that came with time, they felt their family was complete. Still, the idea of a baby boy tugged at her heart. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That tugging eventually gave way to an idea, which became a suggestion and then a commitment, and Dawn and Rick found themselves submitting paperwork to adopt a child from Ethiopia. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once cleared, she began checking the orphanage’s website constantly, where profiles were displayed of children who were waiting for a family. Firm in her decision to adopt a baby boy, she would quickly scan past girls and teenagers. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Until one afternoon, when she was clicking through, and Emily's picture appeared on the screen. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I just froze,” Dawn says. “There was something about her.” Days went by and she could not shake the feeling she had about Emily, but hesitated to tell Rick because it was so far from what they had agreed upon. “I finally texted him at work,” she said. “I was half hoping he would say I was crazy so that could be that, and we could move on.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Instead he immediately replied, “I think we should look into it.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Two months later they were on a plane to Ethiopia to meet their daughter. Arriving at the orphanage past midnight, she said they expected to see Emily the next morning, but instead found her waiting, anxious and excited to welcome her parents.
</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Skhqw0D09vc/YEgTp3aw8QI/AAAAAAACHtI/WCm58DFg3tQHKy84BAZBG4cR4Fo81uiIACLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/ED1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Skhqw0D09vc/YEgTp3aw8QI/AAAAAAACHtI/WCm58DFg3tQHKy84BAZBG4cR4Fo81uiIACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/ED1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Entering a new country and new family at age 14 was a tremendous adjustment for Emily, but her hard-earned strength and intelligence served her well, and she quickly began to blossom. “We love her so much," says Dawn. "She has blessed and enriched our lives far more than we ever could have imagined." Adding, “I don’t deserve any recognition for adopting her. She's the one who’s incredible. We’re just the ones who happened to be listening and answered the call.”
</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L76aUMLJuXQ/YEgTy3xlhsI/AAAAAAACHtQ/hxw_B_0JC7caeI3be0WplePjpx_Gop3fwCLcBGAsYHQ/s879/ED2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="878" data-original-width="879" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L76aUMLJuXQ/YEgTy3xlhsI/AAAAAAACHtQ/hxw_B_0JC7caeI3be0WplePjpx_Gop3fwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ED2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After graduating high school then serving an 18-month church service mission in Georgia, Emily fell in love with the south and is now working in Kentucky. There, she lives close to four others from Ethiopia, seen together in this photograph at the orphanage before their respective adoptions. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hr8P_YcIq0o/YEgNyTmMOfI/AAAAAAACHs4/gHhDqMWa4jw70iGDp3x6vkmUbi7FN_AdgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/DawnEmily.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hr8P_YcIq0o/YEgNyTmMOfI/AAAAAAACHs4/gHhDqMWa4jw70iGDp3x6vkmUbi7FN_AdgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/DawnEmily.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It has been a winding path for Dawn, Emily and the others seen here, and a realization</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> that life is not just the result of roads we chose to take, but the moments they intersect with one another. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is how we do it here. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: Tinos; font-size: medium; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do you know someone you would like to nominate for <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2020/09/real-housewives-of-salt-lake.html">(Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake City</a>? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: Tinos; font-size: medium; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katie.f.erb.1">message me on Facebook! </a></span></p><div><br /></div></span></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-84591528017208017402021-02-24T14:10:00.014-08:002021-02-24T20:07:34.915-08:00(Real) Real Housewife of SLC - Sarah <span id="docs-internal-guid-ea40d7b5-7fff-ae27-04d9-204c5238a4f6"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xwf-_FUqtN8/YDRUpEutWPI/AAAAAAACHrs/rkPkhMMN67IUW2mENprAPY-wNkXsjR93QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1168/sarahnitta.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="1168" height="245" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xwf-_FUqtN8/YDRUpEutWPI/AAAAAAACHrs/rkPkhMMN67IUW2mENprAPY-wNkXsjR93QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h245/sarahnitta.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p>
Sarah Nitta was busy washing dishes when she noticed movement behind her backyard fence. Upon closer inspection she was able to discern a man in a dark hat, and it made her nervous. Who was he, and what he was doing back there? Eventually she saw him lift a tent, and realized he was homeless and setting up a place for himself and his partner to sleep for the night. A night that would reach 19 degrees. </span></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">She tried to get on with her evening, but couldn’t stop thinking about the couple in the tent. When it got dark, she sent her husband outside to see if they were still there. Their supplies were, he said, but he received no response when he tried to reach out. “Hello? Anyone there?” Nothing.</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Sarah wasn’t convinced, so she packed up the enchiladas she had made for dinner into bags, grabbed a step ladder, and headed outside herself. “I’m not going to lie,” she said. “My heart was racing a little.” She climbed up, called out, and was again met with silence. But Sarah wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Hi,” she said. “I’m just going to drop down some food, okay?” And then, from the darkness. “Thank you so much. We won’t be here long. We’re just trying to get back to Arizona.” </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Encouraged by the sound of their voices, she asked if they needed blankets, to which two very eager voices replied, ‘Oh yes. Please!” </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">By now the temperature was in the twenties.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“When I first went inside I started to look for some dingy old blankets,” she said. “Then I realized how dumb that is. If they steal my blankets they need them! I can always buy new ones, and they aren’t in a position to do that.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Watching their mother, her children also became eager to help. “They need blankets,” said her 8-year old daughter matter of factly, “And so we’re going to give them blankets.” Together they gathered their nicest minky comforters. “I just hope these keep them warm,” said Sarah, who slept better that night knowing they would too. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She admits she had some reservations and understands that situations like this require caution, but says she felt an undeniable pull to give what she could. “We never know what brought people to the place they’re in,” she says. “They are someone’s brother or son or mom, </span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and I believe those people are praying for their loved ones to be taken care of that night," she says, adding that she has a cousin in a similar situation and hopes she encounters people who are kind and willing to lend her a hand from time to time. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sarah doesn't know what it's like to be homeless but has overcome her own share of struggles, including years of heartache brought on by pregnancy loss and infertility, before growing her family through adoption and IVF. She has also battled debilitating food addiction and completed a 12-step addiction recovery program, ultimately losing over 100 pounds. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Through all of it, she has been open about her struggles and received an outpouring of support, appearing as a contestant on The Biggest Loser, and sharing even her lowest moments of grief with her followers on Instagram. "I have felt seen and loved," she says, "And I do believe everyone deserves to feel that."</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Far more revealing of her character however, than reality television fame or thousands of followers on social media, is what Sarah chose to do when she was home washing dishes, noticed cold strangers behind her fence, and no one was watching to see how she would respond. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next morning she packed up a bag of breakfast burritos and filled two Nalgene water bottles with hot chocolate, which she told the couple to keep and fill with hot water from a gas station to warm their sleeping bags at night. </span><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Later, she looked out the window</span><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to find that they were gone but her blankets remained neatly folded by the fence, the kindness of a stranger returned. T</span><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">his is how we do it here.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do you know someone you would like to nominate for <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2020/09/real-housewives-of-salt-lake.html">(Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake City</a>? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katie.f.erb.1">message me on Facebook! </a></span></p><div><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-59491184678366882842020-12-22T17:46:00.016-08:002021-02-24T17:12:08.658-08:00(Real) Real Housewife of SLC - Terri <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4q_dVOzAj7M/X-KXMkfvS3I/AAAAAAACHlk/rJGAXf_BwlYUR_J1pfxVdU_KlSZI_jj8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1064/Terri.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="1064" height="175" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4q_dVOzAj7M/X-KXMkfvS3I/AAAAAAACHlk/rJGAXf_BwlYUR_J1pfxVdU_KlSZI_jj8QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h175/Terri.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every Christmas season, Terri Jensen has an overwhelming amount of presents to wrap. Like, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">overwhelming</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. So many in fact, that when her home ran out of room to place all the gifts and wrapping paper, a friend volunteered warehouse space for extra storage. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-23454680-7fff-b8ff-4e61-6c40e4478f2d"><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last year the presents totaled a thousand, each of which was hand-wrapped and given to residents of the Salt Lake City area in desperate need - Immigrants, refugees, homeless, the mentally and physically handicapped, and widows with young children. With each gift, Christmas became a reality for someone who would otherwise have received nothing. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Terri never aspired to be the Santa of Salt Lake, but life has taught her to expect the unexpected. An elementary school teacher for twenty years, she was in the middle of fulfilling a lifelong dream of earning her master’s degree, with hopes of continuing on to a doctorate, when her 16-year old daughter Emily was in a car accident that resulted in a traumatic brain injury. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Terri’s life was put on hold as she became Emily’s full-time caretaker. She attended high school with her every day, pushing her to class in her wheelchair, taking notes for her, and adapting and coordinating her schoolwork with teachers to make it possible for Emily to still ‘graduate’ with her peers. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Twenty-two years later she continues to care for Emily full time, and service is a way of life. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every Christmas since she and her husband Larry were married, they have participated in Sub for Santa. When she began teaching school, she realized there were desperate needs among her students and within the community that she could never alleviate herself. Eager to do more, she and Larry founded “Heart and Hands Sub-for-Santa” to rally friends, neighbors and the community in a giving effort. Since then, she has spent thousands of hours assessing needs and collecting, wrapping and distributing gifts. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the words of her daughter, Jenny McArthur, “This isn’t a wealthy woman who sits on boards and attends fancy gala fundraising events. This is a woman in the trenches. A woman who cares full time for an adult handicapped daughter, who worked full time as a school teacher for years, and who now in her golden years works full time in the trenches of charitable work year round.” And, she adds, “She is as thoughtful of the one as she is the many.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In addition to her efforts with Heart and Hands, Terri also works with volunteers on Navajo Nation reservations to provide delivery of much-needed supplies, and is actively involved in charitable organizations in Africa. She coordinates thousands of pounds of donations a year to be sent to Zimbabwe, and serves on a committee to help provide equitable schooling opportunities for women there. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Whoever said that Christmas is how people act the way they should the rest of the year never met Terri Jensen. For her it's not a season of giving but a lifetime, of the kind of gift no amount of wrapping paper could contain. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-----------</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I am so excited to share, along with Terri's story, a simple but impactful way to assist her efforts to provide for those who suffer. Because of COVID there is not only a greater need among the most vulnerable this holiday season, it also is easier than ever to get involved. </i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Terri's "Heart and Hands Sub-for-Santa" has been</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; white-space: pre-wrap;"> working with licensed Social Workers to locate individuals with physical and/or intellectual disabilities living at the poverty level. Together, they have determined that the most helpful gift for this community are grocery store gift cards. </span></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>The next time you find yourself at the grocery store or online, please consider purchasing a gift card to contribute (Wal-Mart gift cards are best). Donations will be accepted until January 12th, and can be mailed to:</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Too Often Forgotten</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>P.O. Box 159</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Clearfield, Utah 84089</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><div><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-62438934177662463782020-10-26T19:37:00.007-07:002021-02-24T17:12:33.645-08:00(Real) Real Housewife of SLC - Jayme <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MOmTTki3iNI/X5eCce2gdLI/AAAAAAACHa0/lVV8GCQTvW0d0vZMVifoSl4XEkGMn0qYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1041/F5963007-37DA-4DE0-8CC4-9D757F118FC2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="606" data-original-width="1041" height="233" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MOmTTki3iNI/X5eCce2gdLI/AAAAAAACHa0/lVV8GCQTvW0d0vZMVifoSl4XEkGMn0qYgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h233/F5963007-37DA-4DE0-8CC4-9D757F118FC2.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-23f324f4-7fff-ea5a-6ca9-c790a9f6335f"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Jayme Garcia, our </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">fifth </span><a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2020/09/real-housewives-of-salt-lake.html" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Real) Real Housewife of Salt Lake City</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">, is accustomed to success. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">She earned top grades in high school and college, was accepted into a prestigious pharmaceutical program, where she served for two years as Class President and graduated with a Doctor of Pharmacy. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jayme was selected by Smith’s Pharmacy to serve as their first-ever Community Resident, and now works as Director of their Residency Program. She is also President of the Utah Pharmacy Association, and frequently represents Utah pharmacists in television appearances and in advocating for legislation on Capitol Hill. </span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yet in spite of all of her achievements, there is still much about Jayme’s life that she never could have predicted. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Utah, for instance.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Born and raised in Southern California, Jayme had never visited the Beehive State when she was offered the opportunity by Roseman University to enroll in their South Jordan campus. It may as well have been a foreign country. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I truly thought there was no civilization here,” she says with a laugh. “My friends warned me that I would be living in the boondocks and end up as a sister wife.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She was happy to discover upon arrival that nothing could be further from the truth. Jayme says she quickly fell in love with the area and, nine years after promising herself it would only be temporary, is proud to call Utah home and has no plans to ever leave. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It’s the people,” she says. “The people here are so welcoming and kind.” She says there is a feeling of community in Utah that she never had growing up. “My entire childhood I spoke to my neighbors maybe a handful of times but here, it’s a whole different story. Everyone is constantly interacting and supporting each other.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Although, she says, after growing up in California, “I have to laugh when people here complain about traffic.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jayme is an active participant of her church, South Mountain Community Church in Draper, which she says has been a tremendous source of strength, especially in recent years as her life has taken another unexpected turn. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The reason she chose to pursue a career in pharmacy, she says, was because her greatest dream has always been to be a mother, and she knew it would allow for the work life balance that requires. She and her husband Jeremi are incredible parents to their son Isaiah and have a beautiful home with “rooms to fill,” but are struggling with secondary infertility. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For years, she has suffered through multiple rounds of failed IUI and a devastating miscarriage. “It’s a constant cycle of two weeks of hope followed by two weeks of disappointment,” she says. “But it’s those two weeks of hope that keep me going.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hearing the stories of other women facing similar challenges has helped her through her hardest moments, and inspired her to share her own. “I’ve been blessed with a lot of success,” she says, “but I want to be just as authentic with my struggles.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jayme’s own mother miscarried, but she says the two of them never discussed it until she was in her 30s. “But things are changing,” she says. “One in four women miscarry, and one in eight struggle with infertility. They need to know they're not alone.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And so she tells them. Recently while on shift, Jayme was called up for a patient consultation. When she saw the prescription she knew the woman had miscarried, and was able to offer not only the medical advice she needed, but compassionate tears of someone who understood what she was going through. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jayme says she never could have predicted the current circumstances of her life - where she’s living and working, or the winding path to expand her family. But in moments like that, connecting with another woman who is suffering, she says it all somehow seems perfectly aligned. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is how we do it here. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Would you like to nominate an inspiring Utah woman for (Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake City? </span></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Please <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katie.f.erb.1">message me on Facebook</a>! </span></i></p><br /></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-91257960646877937392020-10-19T20:41:00.013-07:002021-02-24T17:12:51.025-08:00(Real) Real Housewife of SLC - Jolyne <p><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OHKcoJOyaVg/X45bWGwecbI/AAAAAAACHZ8/rI04GifNggIysvYImMix8BQv2QXrtvxxACLcBGAsYHQ/s1187/4C7F6C18-7C4E-44C7-87FD-34E64D512408.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="1187" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OHKcoJOyaVg/X45bWGwecbI/AAAAAAACHZ8/rI04GifNggIysvYImMix8BQv2QXrtvxxACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/4C7F6C18-7C4E-44C7-87FD-34E64D512408.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jolyne, our 4th <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2020/09/real-housewives-of-salt-lake.html">(Real) Real Housewife of Salt Lake City</a>, has a gift for knowing just what people need, at just the moment they need it. A</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"> hug at the grocery store for the woman having a bad day, late night visit to a single mom just when she’s hit her limit, or text to a neighbor to check in on a struggling child. </span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-da492ecb-7fff-f3af-0bd7-2a0d14cde782"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you ask her how she does it, she’ll tell you she has an unfair advantage. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So what is it that gives her an edge? J</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">olyne has had severe hearing impairment since childhood - 92% loss in both ears - but describes it not as a setback, but a superpower. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“My whole life it has forced me to stop and think, and pay a little more attention than normal,” she says. “I don’t get to hear with my ears like everyone else, so I have to watch instead of just listening to words. More often when someone is hurting, you can see it in their eyes more than you can hear it in their voice.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This heightened sense of perception and sensitivity to others has made Jolyne, who works at Smith's grocery store in South Jordan, a community favorite. But it has been hard-fought. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a child, </span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jolyne</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> was terrified of being teased for her disability, and did everything she could to hide it - wearing her hair down to cover her hearing aides, or running away from water fights she desperately wanted to participate in for fear they would get wet and draw attention to her impairment. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">She became an expert lip-reader and developed a thick skin that served her well through other challenges as she grew, including the divorce of her parents, and painful decision to put a child up for adoption shortly after high school. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After she married and welcomed a son, Jolyne carved out a life that allowed for limited interaction with others, running an online bookstore with her husband. Then late one evening, she said she ventured to the grocery store to give herself a much-needed break. While there, an employee she had never met went out of his way to make her feel at home. She says she sensed in him a genuine desire to make the world a better place, and was inspired to follow his example. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">She began to volunteer there daily, assisting with customer care, until she was eventually offered a job. She has since worked tirelessly to help create a thriving community of customers who support one another an rally together for charitable causes. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her hearing loss remains a challenge. She depends entirely on lip reading and communicating with customers can be a struggle, particularly in light of the mask mandate. There have also been heartbreaking moments, like not being able to hear her son's voice or laughter. But she is filled with gratitude, saying that she's lucky to have never known life as a hearing person because "being unaware of what you're missing out on makes it easier not to feel sorry for yourself." </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Sometimes I go home and have a good cry," she admits. "But tomorrow is always a fresh start and a new smile." </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.66670036315918px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This optimism is precisely what draws people to Jolyne. Her customers tell me they shop at her store not just for groceries, but also for her genuine concern and hugs. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.66670036315918px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.66670036315918px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a child, her grandfather used to tell her, "If you're not kind, not much else matters." I'm sure he would be proud to know that she understood him perfectly. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.66670036315918px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is how we do it here. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.66670036315918px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.66670036315918px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.66670036315918px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: x-small; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Would you like to nominate an inspiring Utah woman for (Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake City? </i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: x-small; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Please <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katie.f.erb.1">message me on Facebook</a>! </i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.66670036315918px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.66670036315918px; white-space: pre-wrap;">-</span></span></p></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-7972677814725139332020-10-12T18:45:00.011-07:002021-02-24T17:13:08.543-08:00(Real) Real Housewife of SLC - Maryann <p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3laSpmOTBtw/X4T_2kVNSrI/AAAAAAACHYI/WZi43rDHPeY4NJdQUiUXe29L3h_MJk0sQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1188/6DB7BB12-784A-4F4F-9897-6509D71FEA34.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="1188" height="193" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3laSpmOTBtw/X4T_2kVNSrI/AAAAAAACHYI/WZi43rDHPeY4NJdQUiUXe29L3h_MJk0sQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h193/6DB7BB12-784A-4F4F-9897-6509D71FEA34.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>When Maryann, our third <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2020/09/real-housewives-of-salt-lake.html">(Real) Real Housewife of Salt Lake</a>, found out her first child was a boy she and her husband Matt, a South Jordan Police Lieutenant, chose the name Max and began to dream about everything he would do and become. </p><p>Then at 30 weeks pregnant there was an accident, followed by a medical misdiagnosis, and as result Max was born 10 weeks early and later diagnosed with cerebral palsy.</p><p>Parenthood has a steep learning curve for any new mother, but for Maryann there has been the added dimension of learning to accommodate her son's disabilities, as well as the financial strain of keeping up with compounding medical bills, surgeries, and equipment needs. </p><p>But if you're tempted to feel sorry for Maryann, let me stop you right there. </p><p>Max suffers impaired motor function and limited cognitive abilities, but has the confidence of an Olympic athlete and optimism of a daily lottery winner. Once, when asked by Santa Clause what he wanted for Christmas, he responded from the confinement of his wheelchair that he would like a pogo stick. On another occasion, he saw a boy at the park riding a ripstick and begged for a turn. Maryann hoisted him onto it for a brief moment and then as she sat him back down heard him say, "Well, I'm pretty much an expert now." </p><p>Between working two jobs as a dental hygienist and the demands of caring for her two other children, Maryann always makes it a priority to give Max a fulfilling and joyful life - Arranging for him to play wheelchair baseball or give pep talks to his high school football team. Phone calls from his favorite Disney characters. The chance to serve as a student body officer, meet his college football heroes, and a surprise visit at home by a player for his favorite team, the LA Kings. </p><p>When quarantine hit and Max wasn't able to get the social interaction he craves, Maryann set up an Instagram account for him, where he posted daily videos of himself delivering motivational speeches and performing random acts of kindness (do yourself a favor and visit @maxbrown070). </p><p>When you have a child with cerebral palsy, simple tasks we take for granted can become overwhelming obstacles, but Maryann is upbeat and uncomplaining - Not because life has been easy, but because of a conscious decision she made when Max was young. </p><p>For years after he was born, she fought legal battles over the medical errors that led to his condition. One day, a nurse told her that in her opinion, what had happened to Max "can only be classified as a fluke." </p><p>Maryann says that in that moment, the only thing she knew for sure was that her son was not a fluke. No child is a fluke. She knew that Max was exactly who he was supposed to be, and that even with all of his challenges she wouldn't trade him for anything. Then and there, she decided to transfer all the energy she had exerted seeking justice for him into accepting and loving him exactly the way he is. </p><p>The result has been a life that is sometimes difficult but always punctuated with moments of overwhelming joy, achievement and love. </p><p>This is how we do it here. </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Would you like to nominate an inspiring Utah woman for (Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake City? <br /></span></i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Please <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katie.f.erb.1">message me on Facebook</a>! </span></i></p><p></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-15495046716658247012020-10-05T18:53:00.006-07:002021-02-24T17:13:28.723-08:00(Real) Real Housewife of SLC - Debbie <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-59PYOBFBpyw/X3vMdRMbZKI/AAAAAAACHXQ/MypcesSUZ4sVJ9c7U4ZTjomdxrtyhqI0wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1182/65A47F6C-F1C4-4F97-B01C-88A92CE9D126.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="1182" height="208" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-59PYOBFBpyw/X3vMdRMbZKI/AAAAAAACHXQ/MypcesSUZ4sVJ9c7U4ZTjomdxrtyhqI0wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h208/65A47F6C-F1C4-4F97-B01C-88A92CE9D126.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>I met Debbie at her house as she was wrapping up class for the day. She's a kindergarten teacher, instructing now entirely online, and I wanted to interview her about what it's like to be an educator during the pandemic. </p><p>She answered the door with an apology.</p><p>"I'm sorry," she said as she opened it. "I really should have cancelled. I feel bad you came." <br /><br />She told me that her circumstances had recently changed, and that within the week she would no longer be teaching her class. We cancelled the interview, but she invited me into her home anyway, and we ended up visiting for an hour and a half. </p><p>When I returned home, I went through my list of nominees for this series, trying to decide who would take her place. The more I thought about my conversation with Debbie however, the more evident it became that as impressive as it is to adapt to teaching in a Covid environment, it was possibly the least impressive thing about her.</p><p>I'm honored to feature Debbie as our second <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2020/09/real-housewives-of-salt-lake.html">(Real) Real Housewife of Salt Lake City</a>. </p><p>Debbie is, foremost, a survivor. At 16, while crossing the street near her high school, she was hit by a car and thrown 30 feet before landing on her head. Her recovery was miraculous and from that moment, overcoming became a theme in her life. </p><p>Her accomplishments - A college education, teaching career, strong marriage, and two kind, creative (bilingual!) children - are impressive by any standard. But when you consider what she has overcome to achieve them, they are extraordinary. </p><p>For the past ten years Debbie has battled bipolar disorder and psychosis. Her challenges have included hospitalization, relapses and continuous rounds of medical trial and error. But even in moments that test her to the limit, she has never given up. And by continuing to walk such a difficult path, she is paving a way for others who struggle as well. </p><p>Debbie rejects the stigma of mental illness, and speaks openly and honestly about her diagnosis. Her friends tell me that she has increased their empathy for those who suffer, and helped them not feel alone in their own challenges.</p><p>She understands darkness, but is also adept at seeking light. Debbie invents games and dresses up guinea pigs in costume for her kindergarten students. On weekends she can be found mountain biking with friends or exploring hiking trails with her children. She is an avid reader, the first to offer to watch neighborhood kids when someone is in a bind, and the kind of mom who signs up for bubble runs and camps out on the trampoline. </p><p>In stark contrast to the Real Housewives, there is nothing about Debbie that is edited, filtered or extravagant. When she invites you into her home, it's not in hopes that you will be impressed by it or by her, but rather an opportunity to make you feel welcomed and understood. She puts you at ease by highlighting what others would leave on the cutting room floor. </p><p>The trailer to Real Housewives of Salt Lake City tells you that "perfection is attainable," but don't worry. Women like Debbie will reassure you that's it's a myth. </p><p>This is how we do it here. </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Would you like to nominate an inspiring Utah woman for (Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake City? <br /></span></i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Please <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katie.f.erb.1">message me on Facebook</a>! </span></i></p><p><br /></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-43471667670254766602020-09-28T17:09:00.030-07:002021-02-24T17:13:46.950-08:00(Real) Real Housewife of SLC - Krista <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D3LMEexYLLs/X3KVLepF9uI/AAAAAAACHWY/F_BEUGqcuXAbl8dP2bnTWBS4pe3FAycBACLcBGAsYHQ/s1188/A009F5D4-650F-4BE4-9818-775BCFF12A3C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="1188" height="206" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D3LMEexYLLs/X3KVLepF9uI/AAAAAAACHWY/F_BEUGqcuXAbl8dP2bnTWBS4pe3FAycBACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h206/A009F5D4-650F-4BE4-9818-775BCFF12A3C.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Krista, our first <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2020/09/real-housewives-of-salt-lake.html" target="_blank">(Real) Real Housewife of Salt Lake City</a>, is a mother of four, a high school basketball coach, and a hero. </p><p>Actually, her story is the story of three heroes. </p><p>The first is her father, Mike. In 1970, at age 19, Mike was drafted to serve in Vietnam. Krista describes this as the most terrifying year of his life, but knew nothing about it growing up because, like so many who experienced the horrors of Vietnam, he never spoke of it. </p><p>Until one evening, when Krista was grown with young children of her own. He mentioned a Vietnam documentary he had seen on TV, so she cautiously began asking him questions. For the first time in her life he began to speak of small details, including a platoon mate named Stretch. Stretch is the third hero in this story.</p><p>Nicknamed for his height, Stretch was Mike's closest comrade. His signature look was a white tank top, and he gave one to Mike so the two of them could match. Mike said that their friendship is what got him through the atrocities of war, and that he had thought of Stretch every day since. In 1971, Stretch's patrol came under attack and he was shot. He returned home, was awarded the Purple Heart, and the two lost contact. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2_lhR0MU06A/X3Jv7ZM8UqI/AAAAAAACHVg/tlKMuBgJwWsI2h9LK0cdFx17cWuiSud2gCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/E2655A34-2A76-42B7-A5DE-8779E61E2B78.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="534" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2_lhR0MU06A/X3Jv7ZM8UqI/AAAAAAACHVg/tlKMuBgJwWsI2h9LK0cdFx17cWuiSud2gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/E2655A34-2A76-42B7-A5DE-8779E61E2B78.jpeg" /></a></div><p>Until 45 years later, when Krista had an idea. </p><p>Knowing what it would mean to her father, she became determined to find him. All she knew was that his nickname was Stretch, that he was drafted from West Virgina, and his last name was McMillan. Or maybe MacMillan. Or McMullan? Macmullan perhaps? It was a daunting task to say the least but Krista, a strong, intelligent, athletic mother of four, is not one who is easily deterred. </p><p>She began by writing a letter to every McMillan in the West Virginia phone book - 96 to be exact.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J8M2BxhlsnU/X3JxfWtlZnI/AAAAAAACHV0/oo0EK8pvgJMlHnObgCGQ1K5qj3TRDbm9wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/BE22E125-4D39-4D2C-9B0C-6D596494CC9B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J8M2BxhlsnU/X3JxfWtlZnI/AAAAAAACHV0/oo0EK8pvgJMlHnObgCGQ1K5qj3TRDbm9wCLcBGAsYHQ/w150-h200/BE22E125-4D39-4D2C-9B0C-6D596494CC9B.jpeg" width="150" /></a></div><p>Several recipients responded to express their support, but none resulted in a match. She pushed forward, submitting record requests to the VA, contacting local West Virginia news outlets, and creating a Facebook page that resulted in hundreds of leads. Every little spare moment she had between caring for her young children, Krista spent making her way through lists of responses. None of them panned out. </p><p>Until one morning, four months after the search began. She was at the bus stop after dropping off her daughters for school when her phone indicated a Facebook friend request. Accustomed at that point to dead ends and false hope, she said it took a few minutes for her mind to register who it was. </p><p>Stretch. </p><p>"I had no doubt," she said. "All I had ever seen were 45-year old pictures of him, but those were the eyes. I had spent every waking moment looking for those eyes, and there they were." </p><p>Overcome with emotion, she drove to her father's house, teaching her two-year old along the way to say, "Grandpa, we found Stretch!" And from the moment he did, life has not been the same. </p><p>The two comrades began messaging, then speaking on the phone, until they were talking every day. Krista accompanied her dad to Stretch's home in Ohio for a reunion, where they two embraced, reminisced, and once again donned matching white tank tops.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qVRWmgEtyG0/X3Jwxxs_vkI/AAAAAAACHVo/-PfLZ3PAv6AW2GSaXWnCJ0YoWuxLQgzcACLcBGAsYHQ/s1800/AF449A60-C831-4529-9517-8C498B01B34D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1031" data-original-width="1800" height="229" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qVRWmgEtyG0/X3Jwxxs_vkI/AAAAAAACHVo/-PfLZ3PAv6AW2GSaXWnCJ0YoWuxLQgzcACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h229/AF449A60-C831-4529-9517-8C498B01B34D.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>For years they continued to speak daily, until Stretch passed away from complications of Agent Orange exposure. </p><p>But the impact of their reunion endures. Mike speaks openly now about his experience in Vietnam. Krista and her children talk often of their "Uncle Stretch," display his picture in their home, and last Veterans Day, her daughter requested to honor him at a her middle school Veterans Day assembly. </p><p>I have heard some of the “Real Housewives” referred to as #goalgetters, a term trending on social media. Most often, it's in reference to either achieving a certain body aesthetic, income, or number of followers on social media. </p><p>Krista is a (Real) goal getter. Whether raising her children, coaching her basketball team or orchestrating such a life-changing discovery, she is selflessly motivated and fiercely determined. </p><p>This is how we do it here. </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Do you know someone you would like to nominate for (Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake City? Please <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katie.f.erb.1">message me on Facebook</a>! </span></i></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-54215655100409605422020-09-18T14:36:00.050-07:002020-09-29T09:23:12.216-07:00(Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AYZa7iWzxz8/X2VaPj8LCII/AAAAAAACHNs/GZQJ-JfOF5wLwkU8uG8JUp4C1LX5r80agCLcBGAsYHQ/s1188/8F01C4E6-6C5D-43A5-98DF-74B28350EA28.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="1188" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AYZa7iWzxz8/X2VaPj8LCII/AAAAAAACHNs/GZQJ-JfOF5wLwkU8uG8JUp4C1LX5r80agCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/8F01C4E6-6C5D-43A5-98DF-74B28350EA28.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Last week I was making dinner when my phone lit up with a slew of texts. Sure enough, in 2020 fashion, there was breaking news. </p><p>But this wasn't about the pandemic or riots or election. It was my girlfriends urgently alerting me that Bravo had just released the first trailer for Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. </p><p>I confess I abandoned my cutting board and couldn't view it fast enough. It's not that I'm a fan of the series - I've actually never watched - but I reside in Salt Lake and therefore feel personally invested. Since this newest addition to the franchise was announced, I've been part of an ongoing group text, speculating over who would make the cast. Utah is famously the birthplace of influencer culture, so our list of prospects was a mile long. </p><p>To my surprise, not one of our picks made the final list. And if you haven't seen the trailer, let me spare you. It's a one-minute-thirty-second montage that includes cat fights, selfies, strippers, pole dancing, drunken arguments and door slamming, all interjected with pronouncements like, "Hashtag blessed!" and "Perfection is attainable." </p><p>The real what? Of where now? </p><p>One of them also says that "good Mormons don't have sex." Has she not seen the number of children lining the pews of our congregations?</p><p>After watching I contributed a few sarcastic remarks to the chain and went back to making dinner, but my mind wouldn't let it go. </p><p>It's not that I don't understand the appeal of a show like this. We’re talking about Bravo, not C-Span. I totally get that people enjoy watching things that are campy and escapist, and that a program about housewives who put in an honest days work at a dental office or nail a PTA fundraiser wouldn't stand a chance. </p><p>These women are certainly entitled to represent themselves however they choose. But if a viewer’s only perception of Utah comes from watching Real Housewives or heaven forbid Sister Wives, we have ourselves a real PR problem. </p><p>When I lived on the east coast, I was so surprised by the number of people who could barely identify Utah on a map, let alone had ever visited. Many had a warped perception of our culture. </p><p>This is why I was bothered when, at the end of the trailer, the words "Salt Lake City" flashed across the screen as a woman could be heard saying, "This is how we do it here." </p><p>I am here, and that's not at all how we do it. </p><p>Honestly, one of most impressive things about Salt Lake City are the women. I'm continually amazed by the high density of industrious, educated, talented women who run homes, business, and rally together for charitable causes. In my neighborhood alone are women who work as mothers, nurses, teachers, attorneys, school principals, pharmacists and published authors. Women who have pressed on in the face of death, divorce and deployment, and still make time to contribute to their neighbors and community. Women who, as Beyonce would say, "are strong enough to bear the children, then get back to business." </p><p>Women who make it hard to swallow a depiction of housewives as superficial, materialistic competitors of one another. </p><p>So I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands, and assemble a more fitting cast. Every week until the show premieres I will be seeking out and posting a “cast bio” of a (real) real housewife of Salt Lake City. Women who don’t have television contracts, thousands of Instagram followers or coats made from swan feathers (see trailer), but are deserving of the spotlight and representative the Salt Lake City I love. </p><p>If you know of any, please share the good and let me know! This is how we do it here. </p><p><br /></p><p><i style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Do you know someone you would like to nominate for (Real) Real Housewives of Salt Lake City? Please <a href="https://www.facebook.com/katie.f.erb.1">message me on Facebook</a>! </span></i></p><p><br /></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-10428062265221543472020-05-31T19:45:00.000-07:002020-05-31T20:02:59.055-07:00White Balloon<br />
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When my mom dropped me off at school one morning my sophomore year in high school, we could never have predicted that hours later, a police officer would be escorting me back to the car.<br />
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I'm telling this story in an attempt to understand what I have witnessed this week. I realize that no matter how much I write, question or attempt to empathize, I will never be able to fully understand what racism means because I will never experience it firsthand. I have never been judged for the color of my skin or a victim of discrimination and therefore have no way of feeling or defining it. But I also don't believe that should stop me from trying so here I am, trying.<br />
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The first time I remember being confronted with the concept was age 15, which I understand is a significant entitlement itself. It began as a good day. I had been nominated to attend an off-site leadership conference with about 100 other students from my school, and I was excited. We loaded a bus and were taken to community center in town.<br />
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After arriving and gathering for a keynote speaker, we were divided into smaller groups for breakout sessions. I remember being separated from my friends, and placed as the only underclassman in my group. For our first activity we were taken into a room and seated in a circle, where the presenting teacher pulled out a colorful bag of deflated balloons and handed one to each of us.<br />
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He then explained that this was an exercise in public speaking, and that we were to each take turns standing and making a case to the group of why our color balloon was the best. I looked down at mine. It was white, and I felt defeated. White, seriously? Why couldn't I get ocean blue or sunshine yellow or heart red. What even is white? All that came to mind was toilet paper.<br />
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As the others began taking turns and I knew that toilet paper wasn't going to cut it, I racked my brain for ideas and finally came up with a wedding dress. Wedding dresses were white. I specifically imagined the wedding dress of my sister, who had been married just a few months before.<br />
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When it was my turn, I stood, conjured an image of the dress in my mind, and awkwardly made my case. "Hi, I'm Katie. Um, I have white. White is the best color, because...it's like, clean and pure and can be really beautiful."<br />
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And that was that. We shuffled through a few more sessions, ate our boxed lunches and were bused back to school in time to attend our final two classes. Shortly before the end of the day, my teacher approached and said I had been asked to pack my things and report to the front office.<br />
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If I was confused when I arrived, I was even more confused when I was escorted into the principal's office, and downright shocked when I walked in to see a police officer waiting for me. Honestly, my first thought was that someone in my family had died and they were there to deliver the news. My hands started shaking as I sat in the chair.<br />
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The principal reassured me that I wasn't in trouble, but said there had been an "incident" at the conference that day. Incident? I looked around, certain they had called up the wrong person.<br />
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He went on to explain that someone in my breakout group had interpreted the description of my balloon as racially motivated (say what), and that by the time we returned to campus a plan had been hatched to rough me up on the way home from school. Another student had overheard and reported it to a teacher, prompting the administration to contact authorities.<br />
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I was gobsmacked. My mom was called to pick me up, and when she arrived the officer escorted me to her car. I stayed home the next day, too scared to attend, and for a long time after that my heart pounded when I passed students in the hallway, wondering if they had been part of the plan to hurt me.<br />
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That experience would become a defining moment in my understanding of racism. What was initially a feeling of defensiveness eventually gave way to an awareness that perspective is not just about what we see, but where we're seeing it from.<br />
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All I could see that day was a balloon. But another person, from where they sat, could see race; and a host of other things I couldn't see. They may have seen memories of hate they had felt or slurs they had heard; opportunities denied, privileges rebuffed or the pain of those who had gone before them. And when they saw it it hurt them so badly that they wanted to hurt me. And for that, I am so sorry.<br />
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Last night, I watched the riots from the perspective of my living room, and not from inside them. I saw the pain and pressure explode like an overinflated balloon. And while I can't defend the looting or burning down of local businesses, I also believe that these things happen for a reason. As much as I detest the violence, I also desperately want to understand where it's coming from. What do they see that I don't see? What have they felt that I can't feel?<br />
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"<i>I think America must see that riots don't develop out of thin air...But in the final analysis a riot is a language of the unheard. And what is it that America has failed to hear?</i>" (Martin Luther King, 1967)<br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-79722234338437525712020-04-11T17:29:00.001-07:002020-04-11T18:11:33.694-07:00Easter Best <div>
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Winter in Virginia in 2013 was brutal.<br />
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The snowfall was constant that year. We had so much of it, in fact, that school was cancelled a record <i>eleven </i>times. I had four kids under eight and was living in a fixer upper with insufficient insulation and no garage. When I look back on that winter I can only remember doing two things - hiding in a hot bath in the middle of the day, or debating whether getting the kids out of house was worth the misery of scraping the car.<br />
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What got me through was dreaming about spring break. Spring break, I decided, would be our happily ever after. When it was spring break, the sun would shine and the sight of cherry blossoms would welcome us outdoors. I envisioned leaving the house without chipping ice off the car or zipping everyone into layers, driving with the windows down, and picnicking by the monuments.<br />
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And it finally did arrive, on a Monday in late April, along with five inches of snow. On Tuesday, I was diagnosed with a sinus infection which by Wednesday reached my stomach, and knocked me out for the rest of the week. By Wednesday afternoon the house was a category 5 disaster. I think it actually smelled, although my sense of smell was gone, so that is pure speculation. To add to the fun, we lost the remote, cutting off access to the TV and leaving the kids to work out for themselves whose turn it was to use our one iPod Touch. Think Hunger Games, minus the hunger part, as they had also managed to gain unfettered access to the Costco stash of goldfish.<br />
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As I spent the week in bed, I now dreamed about Easter. </div>
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On Easter, the disappointment of the week would be behind us. By Easter, the antibiotics would take effect, and my energy would return. On Easter, the house would be restored to order, and so would the kids. I envisioned scrubbing them clean, dressing them up, and watching them discover their basket treasures. They would delight in their egg hunt and forget all the times during the week I neglected or lost my patience with them. Easter would make everything better. </div>
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And then I thought, isn't that true?<br />
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In my journal that Sunday in 2013, I wrote -<br />
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"This Easter morning, more than most, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for my Savior. The laments of my week were so trivial, but I know that even they were included in His sacrifice. He is the answer to every disappointment, and the source of every happiness. I imagined His resurrection today, and compensation for all my failed expectations, and I was genuinely happy."<br />
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I'm very aware, looking back, of how inconsequential my troubles were that week, but the lesson remains. I had high expectations but don't we all, in life. We want to be healthy and happy. We want great relationships and perfect children and jobs and homes that turn out the way we envision.<br />
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But the older we get the more acquainted we become with disappointment. Our bodies don't always do what we want them to. People get sick, and pass on. We're confronted with pain and loss and betrayal and children that don't arrive or turn out the way we hoped. Economies fall and jobs are lost and pandemics bulldoze our normal.<br />
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And somehow the answer to all of this, is Easter. In whatever tunnel I find myself, no matter how small or vast and regardless of how I got into it, I know that when I can't see light at the end, it can always be found shining from the empty tomb.<br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-71881206618399954512020-04-07T16:29:00.000-07:002020-04-07T17:19:16.292-07:00The Elimination Diet <br />
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I plan out my days in the notes app on my phone, and March 11th was a doozy. All four kids had dental appointments, and there were errands to be run. I volunteered in my daughter's careers class, took the boys to and from two soccer practices and attended both their parent teacher conferences, with an assortment of to-dos crammed into the margins.<br />
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When I finally fell asleep that night it was late and I was exhausted, leaving dishes in the sink piled by kids who had fended for themselves while I was too occupied to feed them.<br />
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And then the next day, one by one, all our commitments fell like dominoes.<br />
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My daughter's prom was the first thing to be cancelled, and then school. Church was indefinitely delayed, as were sports. My son's school play was postponed. Playdates, parties, plans with friends, gone.<br />
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In succession, it was like I was watching every commitment run down my calendar as though written in fresh marker on a white board, then hosed down by a global pandemic.<br />
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Well look at that, I thought, we've begun an elimination diet.<br />
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Years ago, when my daughter first exhibited signs of attention deficit, her pediatrician suggested we try an elimination diet. Sometimes behavioral issues in children, she explained, can be triggered by a reaction to certain foods.<br />
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Because there was no telling which foods - wheat, dairy, soy, artificial dyes - she advised that we remove all of them from her plate for several weeks, then reintroduce categories one by one and monitor how she reacts. If she was calm, for instance, when eggs were eliminated but became hyperactive when fed them again, we would have uncovered our culprit.<br />
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A few years later, I heard the term "elimination diet" again when Whole 30 became popular. I had a few health-conscious friends on the diet and was fascinated by their ability to subsist for an entire month on seafood and a mysterious substance called ghee. ("But you can eat potatoes!" they would tell me, as though this was a flavor of Ben & Jerrys. "But not <i>nightshades</i>," which I pretended to understand before going home to nervously Google "nightshade.")<br />
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Now, in the days of quarantine, the concept of elimination diet has once again entered my mind.<br />
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Just like my attention-deficient daughter without any sugar or artificial dyes in her system, I too began behaving differently when commitments were removed from my calendar. I have been calmer. More present. Experiencing each moment rather than anxiously anticipating the next.<br />
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Since our family began sheltering in place, we have sat down together every night for dinner, something we can rarely pull off lately amid the juggling of work, activities and spring sports. What will it feel like, I wonder, when we re-introduce soccer and baseball into our diet? How we react?<br />
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My teenage daughter, who is never without plans on Friday and Saturday nights, can now be found spending weekends in her younger brother's room, laughing over a video they made together, or listening patiently to detailed explanations of his latest conquest on Fortnite.<br />
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My younger daughter, who relies on special education teachers to shepherd her through middle school now just has me and the kitchen table. As we have struggled together to try and navigate through her classes, I've been rewarded with small moments of joy, discovering abilities in her I didn't realize she had.<br />
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We're more rested these days. Our mornings are no longer rushed. We're not eating out or spending money on things that are unnecessary.<br />
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Of course we have also been confronted with the awful reality of pandemic and anguish of economic uncertainty. There have been real fears, and there have been tears. But in the midst of it we also uncovered an unprecedented opportunity to to reconfigure what matters most. And what doesn't really matter at all.<br />
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I can't wait until my house is once again filled with friends from the neighborhood. I miss going to church and sending my kids to school, and dream about sitting in the bleachers to watch my boys play baseball. But when all of that resumes, when the mask and gloves come off and my calendar begins to reach it's previous capacity, I worry that if we go back to the same life we lived before, a critical opportunity will have been lost.<br />
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So for now we stay home and keep washing our hands, trying to scrub away anything that could threaten the safety and balance of being inside.<br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-73145004981172859842019-12-17T17:13:00.001-08:002019-12-18T10:40:59.439-08:00Bummer Lamb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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A couple years ago as I was hauling Christmas decorations up from the basement, Eddie offered to assist. I knew this wasn't about being helpful as much as it was about being the first to claim the favorite seasonal toys - a Polar Express compass and stuffed Rudolph that sings and dances - but I took him up on it anyway. </div>
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The first storage bin he opened had a nativity set in it, as did the second and third. When he opened a fourth bin and discovered yet another he slammed the lid down and said, "Whyyyyy do you have so much Jesus stuff??"<br />
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It was not our finest moment.<br />
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This year he was once again at my side, opening bins. We rummaged for the toys first to avoid a repeat of his sacrilege, then I put him in charge of setting up the nativities.<br />
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He took quite a bit of creative liberty as he did, placing the African wisemen in the Pilipino stable, and giving a couple of the Josephs a break from paternal duties to hang out with the shepherds.<br />
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He also gathered all the sheep into one place.<br />
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After he went to bed I rearranged things to my Type-A liking, but left the sheep as they were. I liked the sight of them all gathered together, and it inspired me to think about the symbolism and significance of the lamb.<br />
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Over the next couple weeks I read and learned more about sheep than I ever cared to, sharing the most interesting finds with my kids. Their favorite so far has been the story of Chris, <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2015/09/03/asia/sheep-record-wool-shearer/index.html">an Australian sheep who went viral in 2015</a> when he was found suffering under the weight of 90 pounds of wool, because he had been lost and forgotten. There's a lesson in that, isn't there?<br />
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But my personal favorite discovery has been this.<br />
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According to sheep industry websites (seriously, that's how far down the rabbit hole I got), ewes will occasionally give birth to a lamb, then immediately kick it away and reject it, refusing to meet its needs. This can be for various reasons. Occasionally the lamb will be one of twins and the mother is incapable of feeding both. She may also detect a birth defect or sign of weakness, or perhaps is just old and sick of this whole baby business.<br />
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Lambs that are rejected like this are referred to as bummer lambs, and unless a farmer or shepherd intervenes, they will die.<br />
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The sites I browsed explained in detail how to care for bummer lambs. They have to be bottle fed, for instance, and kept warm, usually by being wrapped in a blanket and held, or placed near a fire. When they are finally strong enough to survive on their own, they will be returned to the field to join the others.<br />
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It's said that when a farmer or shepherd calls his flock to gather, the first to come running are the bummer lambs. To them, his voice is the familiar. They know him from experience, and they trust him.<br />
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This is Christmas.<br />
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Someday when I meet Jesus Christ, I want it to be as a bummer lamb. I want to have lived a life with enough pain, rejection and helplessness that when I hear His voice it's familiar to me, and I recognize Him as the only one capable of rescuing me from death, suffering and everything I don't understand, when I'm not capable of rescuing myself.<br />
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"To him the porter openeth, and the sheep hear his voice: and he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. And when he putteth forth his own sheep, he goeth before them, and the sheep follow him: for they know his voice." John 10:3-4<br />
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This is not a scripture I've ever associated with the Christmas story, but I do now. I've also never thought to arrange the nativity sheep into a single flock, but it appears Eddie has started a new tradition.<br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-87122673244201474172019-10-07T18:20:00.001-07:002019-10-07T20:00:52.877-07:00V Formation <br />
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This month, Cal surprised us by auditioning for a part in his <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2019/10/golden-ticket.html">school's production of Willy Wonka</a>. </div>
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He is always surprising us. </div>
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On the one hand, he is a typical 10-year old boy. He loves playing sports and Castle Crush, and on any given afternoon can be found wandering the neighborhood on his bike with friends, in search of any excuse to use a power tool, put out a fire, or bury a dead animal. </div>
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But when you get to know him you might be surprised to discover that trapped inside his adventurous 10-year old body is the temperament of a cynical 45-year old man. From the time Cal was a toddler, he has complained about the cost of living, advised us against risky behavior, muttered under his breath that children throwing tantrums should "man up," and has spent more time disciplining his siblings than his father and I combined. </div>
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Last year, as part of a unit on entrepreneurship, his teacher told the class to pretend they owned a hot dog stand, and asked them to name potential problems their imaginary business might encounter. She said that answers from the students included rainy weather, running out of supplies and competition from other hot dog stands, until Cal raised his hand to suggest that, "We could get nuked by the Russians."<br />
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On another occasion, I was told by a friend that her son had always dreamed of being a professional baseball player, until he made the mistake of telling Cal. This led to a lecture on the difference between childhood dreams and realistic ambitions, and the poor kid coming home to Google more practical options for providing for a family.<br />
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Or there was the time I woke up to find a pile of dollar bills on the kitchen table, and was told that he had solicited it from kids in the neighborhood who came over to watch a movie, because why should we pay for it ourselves. He is constantly calculating, speculating, and trying to stump me with questions like, "Mom, what if you had to choose between me, Eddie, and Jesus?"<br />
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This summer, I had a moment with him that topped them all.<br />
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He had become fascinated with the migration of geese, and learned that the reason they fly in a V formation is to distribute the burden of travel, which can be up to 3,000 miles a year. As the geese in front flap their wings, they produce air and lift that carries to those behind them, allowing the birds in the back to coast, and fly with greater ease.<br />
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When the goose in the front wears out, it leaves its position and goes to the back, and the next in line takes its place.<br />
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One day, Jack had been traveling for work and the kids and I had an overwhelming afternoon. Nothing major, just an accumulation of petty annoyances that culminated in me leaving them alone after dinner to attend a meeting, with the house in a state of chaos.<br />
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A few hours later I returned home bracing for a late night of catch up, and was shocked to walk into a perfectly clean house. Dishes done, laundry put away, stairs vacuu<span id="goog_576998281"></span><span id="goog_576998282"></span>med.<br />
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I was able to determine pretty quickly that Cal had done all the work and found him in bed, nearly asleep. I told him how much I appreciated it, and that it must have been hard for him to do it all himself.<br />
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His answer?<br />
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"You've been flying in the front for so long, I just thought it was your turn to go to the back for awhile and glide."<br />
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Related Post: <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2013/10/according-to-cal.html">According to Cal </a>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-55879331617661135002019-07-24T10:04:00.001-07:002019-07-24T10:04:28.800-07:00Jim & Susan <br />
My parents were married 50 years ago today, on July 24, 1969.<br />
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In Utah, July 24th is a major state holiday - Pioneer Day, which commemorates the settling of the Salt Lake Valley. Businesses are closed, and celebration commences across every city, in the form of parades, rodeos and fireworks.<br />
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That my mom and dad were married on a holiday is purely a coincidence. Just like it's purely a coincidence that Jack and I were married on May 4th, which is Star Wars Day, and I don't know how much longer I can fake a smile when people tell us, "May the 4th be with you" as though we're hearing it for the first time.<br />
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Still, I've always thought that Pioneer Day was the perfect occasion for celebrating my parents' marriage, and not just because of the fireworks. On a day that people are honoring the foundational beginnings of such a beautiful, thriving state, we get to honor the foundational beginnings of a beautiful marriage, and all that has come from it.<br />
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Their story began during their freshman year in high school. They were in the same seminary class, where Mom quickly developed a crush on quick-witted, popular Dad. She was shy, and for the next four years tried unsuccessfully to get up the nerve to ask him to Sadie Hawkins.<br />
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By senior year Dad was class president and homecoming king and mom had all but given up when, out of the blue one day, he approached her locker after school to ask her on a date. From that moment on, they were inseparable.<br />
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Months later she asked him what, after four years, made him suddenly decide to ask her out. He told her that he had had the same dream three nights in a row. In it, he saw the two of them walking had in hand, laughing. He couldn't get the image out of his mind and decided to pursue her.<br />
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I love that story.<br />
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After two years of dating he left to serve a mission in Brazil, where he proposed in a letter, and they married six weeks after he returned.<br />
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The secret to their good marriage wasn't any single dramatic event, or sweeping, monumental gesture. Rather, it was a lifetime accumulation of all the little daily choices, habits and acts of kindness.<br />
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Dad, for instance, was always complimenting Mom. There were several familiar phrases he liked to use, few of which were politically correct. In a poem he once wrote her for Mother's Day, he said -<br />
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"You're a good looking broad," I always say<br />
As offensive as that may seem<br />
To the world at large with its liberated way<br />
But inside it makes me beam<br />
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When she entered a room he would whistle so loud I'm sure the neighbors could hear. Mom was flattered and appreciated it at home but when we were out in public, it was a little embarrassing. Especially when we were at Church.<br />
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He was always giving her gifts. Not flashy jewelry or elaborate vacations. Better gifts, like the heart shaped rocks for which he was always on the lookout to give mom. She keeps some of them displayed in this box.<br />
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He would also write little poems on index cards or the backs of printed church programs. One of his favorite tricks was to hide them in the refrigerator or freezer for her to find. It was not uncommon to scoop ice for a drink during the hot Arizona summers, and end up with one of dad's love notes in your glass.</div>
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His specialty was rebus - puzzles in which words are represented by combinations of letters pictures. These are a few of my favorites that he gave her -<br />
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My childhood memories of their romance aren't necessarily of red roses or candlelit dinners. It was things like the nightly dinner routine. My mom loves to cook and dad loved her cooking. As she would scurry around the kitchen in a whirlwind, Dad was right behind her, putting things away and cleaning up.<br />
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He also loved running errands with her, and joked that his role in their marriage was to "drive and pay." Every Saturday they grocery shopped together. He would do produce, dairy and drinks, and Mom took care of the rest. Then they'd meet up front, where she would sift through his cart and take out some of the junk he had snuck in.<br />
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Their nickname for each other was Pal, and it fit them perfectly. They were one another's greatest friend and champion. Mom supported dad through years of schooling, long days at work, and late nights fulfilling Church responsibilities. Free time for him was rare, but when he did get it she attended all his softball games, made ASU football a priority, and was genuinely happy when an opportunity arose for him to golf.<br />
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They were married 33 years before his passing, but there is no end to effects of the life they built. So today, we celebrate. Happy anniversary!<br />
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-9220636760160985732019-05-24T19:04:00.001-07:002019-05-24T23:56:11.779-07:00Thank You Thirties <br />
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I remember distinctly the day my mom turned forty.<br />
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I was eight at the time, and had always perceived her as younger than my friends' moms, a fact that made me proud. She was energetic and glamorous, taught aerobics, and frequently mistaken for Kathie Lee Gifford in the mid 80s.<br />
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On the day of her fortieth birthday, she was scheduled to teach an aerobics class and I asked if I could tag along. She had been teaching for as long as I could remember, so a good portion of my early memories consist of attempting headstands on bench presses to a soundtrack of Whitney Houston, Belinda Carlisle, and calls to grapevine to the left.<br />
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On this particular day, just before class was over, a few of her friends slipped out the back door and emerged to surprise her with a traditional fortieth birthday celebration - Gifts wrapped in dark paper, black balloons, and a cake decorated with a headstone that pronounced her "Over the Hill."<br />
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I had never seen such a display and while they all had a good laugh, I observed the scene with a terrible feeling of apprehension. Birthday balloons were supposed to be the colors of the rainbow. Bright, happy celebrations of your life. What were these morbid omens of impending death? How dare they throw her a funeral instead of a party?<br />
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It must have been a formative moment, because since that day I have subconsciously designated fortieth birthdays as the onset of a person's mortality. Like we're all born with clocks that countdown to our expiration, but they don't actually begin ticking until thirty nine ends, and someone hands you black balloons and a headstone cake.<br />
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Today it's my turn to turn forty, and if I could I would go back and assure my eight-year-old self that it's all okay, and mom is still young. It does feels like a milestone, certainly, and has prompted quite a bit of introspection recently, but none of the thoughts swirling in my head have been about death.<br />
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Mostly, turning forty has been a chance to reflect on my thirties as I leave them behind, and I'm glad to say that my thirties were kind to me. In the last ten years I have experienced a good range of happiness and challenges that have all taught me a thing or two, or thirty, about life.<br />
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<b><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">Thirty Lessons </span></u></b><br />
<b><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">I Learned in My Thirties</span></u></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">1.</span></b> Little g<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">irls are easier to raise than little boys </span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-2a4f8b50-7fff-027e-003c-e1029ef188ec"><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">2.</span></b><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> And require less supervision </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>4. </b></span>Thirty five is not too old to take your first ballet lesson. But it is too old to show up for your second or third ballet lesson. </div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><b>5.</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> Sometimes clothes look better on the model </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>6. </b></span>George Washington's false teeth are on display at Mount Vernon, but don't ask me to prove it.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>7.</b></span> Children should be expected to contribute at a young age. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>8. </b></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">Snowmen can pack heat without melting</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>9.</b></span> "La Tina" is Spanish for ringworm. This is helpful information, but not the first thing you want to see when you arrive at the maternity ward to deliver your baby.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>10. </b></span>Men will do almost anything for a new set of golf clubs. </div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-a159df3a-7fff-4f76-44e0-4ce9943a9837"><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">11.</span></b><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> They also need time after returning home from Church to relax and unwind </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><b>12. </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Butterflies with disabled wings are the most fun </span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-8daa3454-7fff-4135-b912-e9ed826dafa6"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-large; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>14.</b></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Some kids will volunteer to have their picture taken. Others must be drafted. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>15.</b></span> The nuances of a Japanese steakhouse should be explained to children ahead of time. </div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-6b9eb09e-7fff-9e47-f5b3-dd773b3962e6"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-large; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>16. </b></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No one warns you about the amount of human waste you’ll encounter on the sidewalks of San Francisco. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>17.</b></span> When your caller ID says Prince William, don't get your hopes up and make a fool of yourself. Prince William is a county in Maryland. </div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><b>19.</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> Nothing beats a cousin sleepover </span></div>
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And Dora</div>
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And Mickey </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>21. </b></span>When 711 says you can fill any container on free Slurpee day, they mean it.</div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-d35a0350-7fff-d529-97f7-7128bcf6da74"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-large; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>22. </b></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wearing a University of Utah sweatshirt will help you make new friends in Salt Lake, but not if you're wearing it to an ugly sweater party </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>23</b></span>. Life will never get worse than the moment your sister found the golden egg on Easter. </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">24. </span></b>Don't forget the letter G at the end of your sentences. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>25.</b></span> Teach your kid sports now, and humility later. </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">26.</span></b> When your cousins offer to bury you in the sand, check them first for bread crumbs.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>27. </b></span>The best time of day is when dad gets home from work.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>28.</b></span> If you wear a fur-lined coat and mittens to the World War II Memorial, your shadow will look exactly like Dora the Explorer.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">30.</span></b> Happiness is finding the right balance of chasing your dreams, and living in your reality. </div>
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-29060695588797120002019-05-10T15:51:00.000-07:002019-05-10T22:29:06.827-07:00Election Results <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Ironwood High School Homecoming Parade, 1996</i></span></div>
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After conveying in my last post how important I believe it is for <a href="http://www.kateexpectations.com/2019/04/mandidates.html">girls to participate in student government</a><span id="goog_2066630981"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_2066630982"></span>, I thought I would share the story of my own high school campaign.<br />
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At the end of my junior year, I talked myself into running for student body president and decided to file early, knowing I could just as easily talk myself out of it.<br />
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Applications became available on a Monday morning. I picked one up before school, quickly collected the requisite signatures, then waited anxiously for Friday's deadline, wondering who would file to run against me.<br />
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The week dragged on with no news, and by Thursday afternoon I was still uncontested and breathing a sigh of relief. No one to run against meant no campaigning. No posters. No speech. No self promotion or trying to convince anyone I was a superior choice. This might have been bad news for the democratic process, but it was great for my limited comfort zone.<br />
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And then at the eleventh hour, on Thursday afternoon, a baseball player showed up on his way to practice to throw his hat into the ring. He had been recruited by the student government advisors to run, and they couldn't have picked a better candidate. He was popular and well-liked. Smart. Good looking. Quarterback of the football team. Kind to animals. I was toast.<br />
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It's remarkable how quickly a person can turn from reluctant dreamer to Tracy Flick, but that's exactly what happened to me. For every poster he hung, I hung five. I crafted and distributed 500 neon paper neckties with my slogan on them. Did you know that six rolls of butcher paper will cover an entire wall of the cafeteria? Neither did I, until he decided to mess with me.<br />
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As the week went on he campaigned casually, maintaining the breezy demeanor of someone who was only running because he'd been asked to. I, on the other hand, was sleepless. Think Hilary Clinton in October, when the Access Hollywood tape hasn't deterred Trump and Comey suddenly decides to investigate your emails. I lobbied the cheerleaders, rallied in the quad, and delivered my speech like Winston Churchill before the House of Commons.<br />
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In the end it all paid off I suppose, although I was too exhausted to even enjoy the victory. My opponent conceded and congratulated me like a gentleman. I thanked him, and apologized for hiring someone to run over his dog. I'm kidding!<br />
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A month into my term however, there were fireworks. Literally. My vice-president, whom I will call "Phillip" was implicated in a scandal that involved the homecoming bonfire and dynamite, and asked to step down from office. Looking back on it all, I gotta give Philip the credit he deserves. The bonfire incident made for a night none of us will ever forget, and as a politician if you're going to go down in flames, why not literally go down in flames?<br />
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After the ashes settled, the student government advisors were tasked with filling his vacancy, and decided to do so by appointment. Their choice was obvious - The guy who had run against me. He accepted the position and was sworn into office. We shook hands, buried hatchets, and posed for this official yearbook student government photo which, for reasons I honestly can't remember, we thought would turn out best if we stood behind dead bushes.<br />
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As the year progressed, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that this vice president and I actually worked really well together. So well in fact that at the end of the year he asked me to prom.<br />
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And four years after that, asked me to marry him.<br />
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This month marks twenty-three years since that campaign, and there's still no one I'd rather have as my second in command.<br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-80740908907350179732019-04-26T18:07:00.000-07:002019-04-27T23:52:36.939-07:00Mandidates<br />
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It's student government election season at my daughter's middle school. Because no proper American campaign is without a good controversy, I always find myself instinctively trying to sniff one out - even if it is among ninth grade candidates whose chances hinge on how much glitter they use in their cafeteria posters.<br />
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In the case of this campaign however, controversy presented itself without any effort at all.<br />
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The election process began a couple weeks ago, when all interested students were encouraged to fill out an application that included teacher recommendations and questions about their qualifications. Next, each applicant was interviewed by two teachers and asked to role play scenarios that included, for instance, how they might help a new student feel welcome on campus.<br />
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Of the applicants, these teachers were tasked with selecting four finalists to appear on the ballot, two of which would then be elected officers by popular vote of the student body.<br />
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On the day the applicants were notified who had been selected, I happened to be on campus. It was after school, and an administrator announced over the loudspeaker that anyone who applied for student government should report for the results. Always a sucker for breaking news, I followed a few of them to watch. I should note here that my daughter was not among the applicants, so I was able to observe what happened next from a pretty objective standpoint.<br />
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Thirty students had applied. As they entered the room they were each given a sealed envelope that revealed whether they had been selected or not. Four emerged with congratulation letters. All of them boys. Every girl - and the majority of applicants were girls - was rejected. Smart girls. Kind girls. Well-liked girls. National Junior Honor Society girls. All of whom will be casting votes next week on a boys-only ticket.<br />
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I tried so hard not to let this bother me. I really did. I went through all kinds of justifications in my mind, about how the deciding teachers must have known more than I did, or maybe the boys really were more qualified than the girls. I reminded myself that I wasn't a fan of gender politics anyway.<br />
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In the end however, I couldn't shake the feeling that a mistake had been made, and wrote the following letter to the principal.<br />
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Dear Principal (--) ,<br />
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I'm the parent of a 9th grader and am writing, first, to express my appreciation for efforts that have been made at (--) Middle School to encourage female students. I applaud your decision to participate in SheTech, and display empowering messages throughout campus. It has been wonderful to have a female principal who serves as such a positive role model for girls of confidence, leadership, and what is possible.<br />
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I also wanted to respectfully convey my disappointment upon hearing that only boys were chosen to appear on the student government ballot this year. I worry that in denying female representation, you have missed a great opportunity to send an encouraging message to all of your female students, whether they have political ambitions or not.<br />
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As you're aware, women are decidedly underrepresented in politics at both the local and national levels. When they do run for office, they are <a href="https://scholars.org/sites/scholars/files/ssn_basic_facts_oleary_and_shames_on_shattering_the_glass_ceiling_for_women_in_politics_0.pdf">just as likely as men</a> to win their elections. The reason they are so underrepresented is because they are far <a href="http://cawp.rutgers.edu/sites/default/files/resources/initialdecisiontorun_0.pdf">less likely to run in the first place</a>. Two of the most frequently cited explanations for this are the fact that females are less likely than their male counterparts <a href="https://www.american.edu/spa/wpi/upload/Girls-Just-Wanna-Not-Run_Policy-Report.pdf">to be encouraged to run</a>, and that they are less likely to <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2014/05/the-confidence-gap/359815/">consider themselves capable of doing so</a>.<br />
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It takes a lot of courage for girls in middle school to decide to run for student office. Presenting them with a boys-only ballot could perpetuate their self doubt, and make them less likely to consider it as an option for themselves. It's discouraging enough when boys self-select more frequently than girls, but particularly disheartening when teachers are the ones who have done the selecting.<br />
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I hope that in the future, you will consider ensuring that those who oversee this process take advantage of the opportunity to empower young girls to perceive themselves as capable of campaigning and holding leadership positions on campus. So often what happens in school can shape what happens in real life.<br />
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Thank you,<br />
Katie Erb<br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-21924050724207477282019-04-21T17:36:00.001-07:002019-04-21T19:48:21.589-07:00Donde esta tu aguijon? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Atonement by <a href="https://deseretbook.com/p/30x22-atonement-framed-matted-paper-print?variant_id=171862-framed-textured-paper">Kate Lee</a></i></span> </div>
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My Dad didn't speak Spanish, but that never stopped him.<br />
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He was convinced that the Portuguese he learned decades earlier on a mission to Brazil, and subsequently forgot, qualified him to strike up a conversation with every Hispanic we encountered at the grocery store, library, restaurants, etc. I have many memories of their patient smiles as they tried to understand his commentary on the weather or last night's Sun's game in Portuspanglish.<br />
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When he was given an ongoing assignment to address Spanish-speaking congregations of our church, he refused the interpreter that was offered him. Rather, he preferred to write out his messages in English on a large yellow legal pad and pass them off to my brother Jeff, who was fluent in Spanish and would interpret for him. He always began those talks by joking that if people didn't love what he had to say, it was because Jeff had translated it wrong.<br />
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One spring, Jeff was handed the usual yellow lined paper to interpret and said that as he did so one particular phrase seemed to jump off the page. "<i>Donde esta oh muerte tu aguijon?</i>" Translated, this means, "Oh death, where is thy sting?" For a long time after, he said, that phrase kept coming back to him. "<i>Donde esta oh muerte tu aguijon</i>?"<br />
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Seven months later, Dad was suddenly gone. When I look back on that blurry time, of receiving the news, the funeral, and sorting through our unexpected loss, one memory that stands out to me is how peaceful Jeff was. He was Dad's firstborn, only son, and favorite teammate. I knew the loss for him was devastating and yet he was so composed, and calm. Sad, but strong.<br />
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I found out later, after he told me of this experience, that one of the reasons for his inexplicable peace was the echoing of this question asked by Paul to the Corinthians, "Oh death, where is thy sting?"<br />
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Death is a lot of things. It can be confusing. Sad. Lonely. Heartbreaking. But the sting of it was taken away on Easter. On Easter, Christ emerged from the tomb, overcame death, and promised that we will too.<br />
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Much like my dad's attempts to converse in Spanish, I find myself inadequate to express exactly what this means to me, but willing to try.<br />
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Estoy agradecido.<br />
<br />Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-75221158579637868452019-04-19T12:39:00.000-07:002019-04-19T16:23:25.094-07:00Plastic Eggs & Deadly Plagues <div style="text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">March 2011 </span></i></div>
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The kids and I went grocery shopping at Safeway this morning and when we were finished, decided to browse through the Easter display. </div>
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I was sifting through the shelves - and half ignoring their desperate requests for jelly beans, stuffed chicks and chocolate bunnies - when Cal hands me this. </div>
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I beg your pardon?</div>
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I read the label again, confirming that yes, that there was a bag of PLAGUES. Who knew? The calamities suffered by the Egyptians? The disease, the darkness, the locusts…Turns out those weren’t just the wrath of God unleashed on Pharaoh. Those are toys you can put in your child’s Easter basket. </div>
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And I for one could not resist. I had just told the kids we didn’t have enough money for popsicles, then I turned around and tossed a bag of plagues into the cart. </div>
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The fun started at the register. Perhaps I’m easily amused, but I loved seeing “bag of plagues” on my grocery receipt, right between “Tostitos” and “parmesan cheese.”</div>
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Now let’s take a look inside - </div>
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First, we find the usual items one would expect in a child’s bag of plagues. Blood, lice, locusts, wild beasts…</div>
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Then of course there are boils. </div>
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Most kids today have never even heard of boils, and I think it's high time they learned. Boil Handz could be the next Silly Bandz. </div>
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The cow is cute, but don’t be fooled. </div>
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He is diseased. </div>
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The frog? Not diseased. Leah loved the frog. </div>
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Until I told her to imagine millions of him, overflowing the neighbor’s pool, filling up the streets, spilling through our windows and into her bedroom….</div>
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Fun's over.</div>
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Here is Cal, plagued by darkness...</div>
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The bag also contains a puzzle,</div>
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Which will go in Jolie’s basket, <i>obviously</i>.</div>
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She might be disturbed at first, but rest assured I can comfort her with stories of people slaying innocent lambs, slathering their blood above the door, and then listening to the deafening wail of Egyptians whose firstborns had been killed. Sweet dreams, darling, that is the final plague. </div>
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The label promises that all 10 are “Fun & Educational,” and I would have to agree. I think another selling point are the kinds of arguments these toys are likely to prompt among siblings (“Quit touching my boils!” “Take the lice out of your mouth!!” “Where’d you hide the blood??” etc.). With a little luck, these kinds of exchanges will occur in public. <br />
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I highly recommend offering up the $5.49 sacrifice. </div>
Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1096693130272726623.post-50292823731368946152019-03-12T14:04:00.002-07:002019-03-21T13:34:56.287-07:00Bruce at Smiths <br />
There is a real-life rockstar in my neighborhood.<br />
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His concerts are the hottest ticket in town. He has over 20,000 followers on Facebook, with a loyal core of groupies who thumbs-up nearly every post. Fans of his never turn down his invitations to happy hour, and have been known to line up before sunrise for a chance to score some of his swag. He can hardly go anywhere locally without being recognized or asked for a selfie.<br />
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Who is this celebrity?<br />
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He's Bruce, Assistant Manager at Smith's Marketplace in West Jordan.<br />
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Bruce has worked in the grocery business for 35 years, and four years at this particular location. If you doubt his celebrity status, ask yourself how many other grocers you know whose face is requested on children's birthday cakes -<br />
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Or whose likeness has been used as a Halloween costume -<br />
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I asked Bruce's assistant of four years, Jolyne Gailey, for his official job description, but it's hard to narrow down exactly what he does. (Did I mention he serenades customers with his trumpet in the produce department?). His role is to ensure that customers have a positive experience, but don't you dare call them customers. "I don't have customers," he has said. "I have friends who happen to need a few things at my job."<br />
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For four years Jolyne has watched those friendships form from the sidelines. Or rather, the deli section. People walk through the door looking for a particular produce or cut of meat, and leave with a genuine advocate. "For Bruce, there is no distinction between business and personal," she says. "Everything is personal to him."<br />
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She's not kidding about the blurred distinction. Bruce routinely comes to work early, leaves late, and rarely takes a day off. Recently however, he took his first vacation in years, to Calfornia, where he sent the employees back home pictures of himself at Disneyland and on the beach...In his apron and name tag.<br />
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"They brought me in to slow him down," Jolyne says with a laugh. "But no one can slow down Bruce." She said that he uses his job as a chance to silently watch for needs in the community, and then does whatever he can to meet them.<br />
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That silence is his charm. Bruce certainly hasn't campaigned for his celebrity. In fact, the attention seems to make him downright uncomfortable, but is the inevitable result of one single, positive interaction at a time.<br />
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Take his Facebook account, for instance. After Bruce received the site's maximum 5,000 friend requests, it became necessary to set up 'Bruce at Smith's,' a public page that currently has over 16,000 followers. Last week, among the photos of current cereal deals and soda discounts, he wrote a heartbreaking post about the sudden death of his sister. To the thousands who read it he began, "This is quite personal, but you are my friends, so I'm sharing it with you."<br />
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Scroll further through the page and you'll find an outpouring of public affection. Posts of gratitude for picking up someone's favorite Canadian soda, stocking Toy Story ice cream for their kids, or consoling someone's wife in the floral department after her father passed away.<br />
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But, just like life, some of the best examples of charity and goodwill can be found off of social media.<br />
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I asked my neighbors who shop his store for examples of his customer care, and was flooded with stories. One friend shared about the time her granddaughter was upset after she missed seeing Bruce dressed as Santa, and when he heard about it showed up on her doorstep in costume.<br />
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Another had posted to Facebook that her son got stitches, and shortly after Bruce arrived with bags of his favorite candy.<br />
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There were meals delivered to sick parents, and meals delivered to healthy parents because they deserved a night off from cooking. He has brought presents to patients in the hospital, and played songs of celebration on his trumpet after successful surgeries.<br />
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When shoppers need something that isn't in stock, he will drive around town until he finds it. He assists with school and community fundraisers, and has walked customers to their cars on rainy days using patio umbrellas from the furniture department.<br />
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One mother shared, emotionally, that she was selected as a contest winner on what happened to be the anniversary of her child's death. When she received her prize from Bruce it was with the inspired message that "someone upstairs was shining down on her."<br />
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Another shared the time he stopped by her house because her kids had requested he help them build a fort.<br />
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All of this has resulted in a customer loyalty reminiscent of a different era. One woman drives 60 miles each way, every week, to shop Bruce's aisles. "It's his genuineness," says Jolyne. "You can't fake kindness like that for that long."<br />
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One of my favorite personal observations of Bruce has been the tours he provides for young children, which are in high demand for local kindergarten, preschool and Cub Scout groups. Even if you have nothing on your grocery list, it's worth a trip to the store during one of Bruce's tours just to hear the belly laughs of children when he tells them to close their eyes so he can sneak food from the shelves into their hands, or hides in the dairy fridge to moo like a cow.<br />
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And why should kids have all the fun? Every night Bruce and Jolyne host a free event for customers that include unlimited "happy hour" fountain drinks and and Slurpees, or bowls of cereal for the entire family. He hosts Price is Right for womens groups and daily Facebook giveaways with prizes that include delivering ice cream to your door, and washing dishes while he's there.<br />
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Bruce has also won a competition or two himself. He's been recognized on the local news and in national contests for his customer care but always gives away his prize winnings, and he takes the same approach to birthdays. If it's your birthday he'll give you free banana splits and a trumpet concert, but if you ask when his birthday is, he'll deflect and changes the subject.<br />
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Forgive me then, for publicizing that his birthday is today. But for a store manager who accepts returns as freely as he does, I don't think recognition should be any exception.<br />
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"Everyone knows him as 'Bruce at Smiths,'' says Jolyne. "But I like to remind him that Smith's doesn't define him. He's more than the apron and name tag. It's his love for people that defines him."<br />
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Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294153505443347144noreply@blogger.com