Here are a few of the snippets rattling around in my head. None large enough to a be a full post, but together? They totally count as one.
In Portland over the weekend, we went to the Institute Building where my dad works. I was browsing through his office and found some pretty remarkable things. I read a letter written by my dad’s dad–which was totally weird because I’d never seen his writing. He died when he was 47, and barely had contact with my dad after my grandma divorced him when my dad was three. It was surreal to read his words in his own handwriting. He actually had a decent writing style and good grammar.
I had a cold over the weekend.
Not sure if you quite understood the impact of that statement, because it sounds all tranquil and not-a-big-deal-ly. But this cold was handmade by Satan. It was specifically crafted to make a person totally miserable. If you get it this season I have three words for you: I love you.
You might not understand now, but when you’re whimpering and hacking in the night, unable to sleep hour after hour after hour and feeling like Death has gripped your innards, you’ll remember this post and those words will bring you comfort.
Yesterday was pretty amazing. We were invited to do a fireside in Boring, Oregon. (That’s right. There is a city, and it is called Boring.) The fireside was for the leadership of the Gresham stake, and we were panelists, and there was a whole chapel filled with stake leaders, listening to us talk about homosexuality. This is the fourth fireside we’ve done like this, and it kind of amazes me how wonderful these events are. People want to understand. They really do. At the end of this one, the Stake President pulled us aside and said “You guys did such a great job. You had them eating out of your hands. I mean, I was expecting people to walk out of this thing. This is redneck country!” Funny.
All right, I’m trying to think of more stuff but I keep falling asleep, so I think that’s a subtle sign that it’s time for me to put my laptop down and let my body recover from the Satan cold.
Good night, Weeders.