How I wish you were here.

Sometimes I miss my grandmother Phyllis a lot. I want to tell her about what I am doing in my life so she can sincerely marvel, as she always did, at my meager accomplishments. I want her to meet my boyfriend. "Delightful" she would say after meeting him. And she would remember his name. Shea. Not like my last boyfriend whom she always mistakenly called "Brandon." I miss her always recounting some way God had answered her prayers that week, or how she saw His hand in a friend's life. I miss her telling me she didn't care what I did so long as I was happy and embracing the truths she held sacred.

Sometimes, when I miss her, I look at her blog which is simply composed of pictures from a family party years ago. I look at the pictures of myself. Hair too long, too skinny, donned in clothes that have long since left my wardrobe. A girl trying to figure out what she wanted out of life. A girl yet to discover what she loved in life. I look at my sister and her daughters. all blond. All of us on the "ninja turtle" scooters- the staples of fun at grandma's house. I look at my grandmother's yard. Her pride and joy. And her other pride and joy- her family. She was so happy when we all were there. Cousins pregnant with kids who are now graduating pre-school. Cherub-faced children snacking on potato chips. The unnatural, superficial conversation between relatives that spend too little time together. "Are you still writing that missionary?" "Let's see now, what year are you in school?"

My grandmother had a book that she kept. It had everyone in it. All of the children and their children, and their children. Conversation was never unnatural for her. She thrived off of it. Funny how generations pass. And those left behind are left wondering so much about those who were gone before. I wonder so much about my parents now. Will I take the time to ask them about what they thought about at my age? Who did they want to date? If they ever did their homework on time? Did they procrastinate like me? How did they know what they wanted from this life? What did they think when I was born? Were they ready to be parents? Will I ask them? Will they ever tell me without me asking? No.

As I see my parents become the next generation, I can't help but think that death escapes no one, the rich and the poor, all die. I can't help but think about man's mortality. I want to ask those questions. I want to learn from all around me. I never want conversation to be forced. I want to send random notes in the mail with old things, just like my grandma. I want to be stuck in simpler times with different cares. Yet each generation has their burden to bear. Perhaps my generation must suffer from the lack of connection. Maybe I must work to be a conversationalist when deep emotions are expressed through icons from a keyboard. Grandma, I miss you and your bad cooking, life-risking driving, and poor budgeting skills. I miss all of your flaws, for I see the beauty in them now. Here's to hoping I can make the most out of my generation. I have so much yet to learn.

http://phyllisthomson.blogspot.com/

Dear Utah,

Why do you insist on constructing EVERY road I drive on everyday?

Summer lovin'!

Awkward family photo.

This weekend I had the pleasure of traveling to Idaho to visit my brother Clint and his son Cooper. The result-- some very awkward family photos. See for yourself.

I am not sure why we decided the best place for a family photo would be by a large, random statue of Abraham Lincoln. We were in Boise, Idaho not Washington D.C. Maybe it was fitting because my Dad is obsessed with civil war history and it was almost Father's day. Or maybe, because we wanted to truly represent that "a house divided cannot stand." Either way the resulting pictures are so very amusing.

Jiminy cricket

Sometimes I feel like my legs are this long.

Can't help

On occasion, my heart gets heavy. I get weary. I feel overwhelmed. I want to help but don't know how. I fall short. I don't know where to start. I cry. I am too sensitive. I am engulfed by my emotions and the emotions of those around me. But. Then I get a present like this album:

And my heart slowly, but surely, becomes light again.

Jess

Aubrey Lyn

My sweet little sister Aubrey graduated high school on Thursday. I cannot believe she is all grown up.

One of the best parts about having a sister is that you always have a companion, a playmate to go through life with. Aubrey made my childhood experience. She is so much more DRAMATIC than me. In a beautiful way. She lives so vivaciously. I hated the dramatics when she would make herself cry and get herself out of trouble. But then when we were playing pretend, she could weep when I was her mother who became deathly ill on my boat-ride over to America. This made the direness of our game so much more realistic.

Aubrey is sassy. She always says what she thinks. That is something I admire so much because I am always too shy to share what I really think. She is so strong. I love that about her. Her strength has made her a successful leader around school, at church, and in our community.



 Aubrey loves people. She is especially fond of children and quick to befriend them.

Aubrey is artistic. She has recently dabbled in drawing, and her work is lovely. A lovely reflection of herself. She is musical. We harmonize to Ingrid Michaelson at the top our lungs. We are always sharing songs with each other. We have an ongoing dialogue about artists we love. Aubrey is witty. This is reflected in her prose and paper-writing. We always banter and make jokes. We think we are so clever, and we are.

Aubrey is my best friend. I will miss her so much when so moves to Logan next year. Congratulations on graduation my dear, sweet sissy! I love you!

Jess