Connection

 There we were—absolutely exhausted—sitting in our airplane seats. It was 11:30 P.M., and Andrew and I were both looking forward to getting some shut-eye before the drive back to our little house in Elk Grove, California. Then it hit me: we had been praying for missionary opportunities.

Right then, a group of high schoolers boarded the plane. Clean-cut, clearly young. One boy—well, young man—sat next to us. He introduced himself as Christian, and we started talking. At first, it was light—he told us about his trip, a Founding of America tour. In return, we shared about our trip to Utah, our wedding reception, and our faith. I asked about his beliefs, and he said he was agnostic.

Somehow, the conversation shifted to family history. I showed him where the Family History Library was on the map, and something opened up. He began talking more—especially about wanting to learn about his sisters. We even set a time to meet there later that week.

As the conversation continued, he became more vulnerable. It was obvious: this was a young man with so much to say and very few people to say it to—at least, not people he felt safe opening up to. By the end of the flight, he said he felt our meeting was inspired—that we were meant to meet.

Then, almost out of nowhere, he said something that stuck with me. He told me he felt smart—book smart—but struggled with everyday things, like tying his shoes or folding T-shirts. He said it made him feel like he might become obsolete, because people prefer being around those who seem “successful.”

I asked a few more questions, then reflected back what I heard: that his strengths were less visible, and because people tend to value what is obvious, he worried others would not want to be around him. His face went still. His voice shook. He said yes.

That moment mattered. It took courage for him to say that out loud, and I was genuinely proud of him for doing it.

It also made me think about my wedding reception. Standing in the receiving line, I made a point to ask people about themselves. Whenever they tried to turn the attention back to me, I redirected it to them. And honestly, that line became far more meaningful than repeating my life plans a hundred times. It was healing.

Connection, it seems, is not about being seen—it is about seeing others.

Make the bed

 A sum is made up of two parts. If the overall value is to increase, it is far more effective for both numbers to grow—not just one. Aldrin’s efforts are already increasing; the real question is, what happens when mine do too?

 I want to be more intentional about making the bed when I get up. I know this is probably not the answer you expected, but when you get married, there is another person in the equation. And that means more than just shared responsibility—it means the equation itself changes. Even if one number stays the same, adding another changes the answer.

Because Aldrin leaves for work much earlier than I do, I am still sleeping when he goes. I work swing night shifts at the hospital, so by the time I wake up, I am usually rushing—out the door to school or work. And because of that, I do not always make the bed.

But I have noticed something. Aldrin feels a lot better when he comes home from a long workday to a clean house. And honestly, I do too.

The past few days, I have been leaving the house a mess, and he has so cheerfully cleaned up for me. There is something quiet and kind in that. Something I do not want to overlook.

He is unchnaging. his willingness and demenor to clean does not chnage. yet iwant to change my part in the equatio to make a sum or prudct of great er value. to elevate out realtisohsip 

So I want to try—to do this one small thing for him. The same thing he does on the days when I leave before him. Just something simple.

Make the bed.

 It’s okay to wait to have children.

Adam and Eve waited for a time to prepare. They were married first, and it took time before they could leave the garden and partake of the fruit of the Tree of Life.

I think I relate to Eve in her dilemma. There are two responsibilities: have children, and not partake of this tree.

But it was necessary for one to happen in order for the other. It might be necessary to partake of knowledge so that I can have children.

If needed Adam to a Sister, I need to turn to my husband and see his thoughts.

The not for giving almond milk. Get the for giving ROOMMATE.

Roommates. We love them.

Thankfully, I now have the best roommate—my husband. Even better, we share everything. There is no “he ate my food” or “she used my shampoo.” It is all just… ours.

But it was not always like that.

Right before I got married, I rented a room in a house with a 90-year-old woman. Before that, it was college roommates. And before college, it was my mission companion.

In other words, I have had a wide range of roommate experiences.

And one thing I have learned?

Apparently, I cannot be trusted around other people’s ice cream.

The time I had an “aha” moment was when I ate my roommate’s ice cream and needed to replace it before she found out.

It was a stressful night, and I kept waking up. Eventually, I wandered to the freezer to see what we had. That is when it happened.

The chocolate Tillamook ice cream stared straight at me.

It was not just there—it was calling me.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the couch, staring at the white, scraped-clean bottom of an empty container, wondering how my life had led me to this moment.

Panic set in immediately.

I started pacing. I needed a plan.

DoorDash? My card would not work.
Drive to the store? It was 3:00 a.m., and I value my safety slightly more than dairy-based redemption.
Text someone to DoorDash it for me? Desperate. Tempting. Still a no.

And then—clarity.

I will just make her ice cream.

I grabbed almond milk (the closest thing we had to real milk), raw cane sugar, and cocoa powder. I mixed it together like I knew what I was doing, poured it back into the container, and slid it into the freezer—quietly hoping she would not wake up craving ice cream for breakfast.

Against all odds… it froze.

Unfortunately, it froze into something with the structural integrity of a brick.

Later, I watched her open the freezer, take it out, and just… stare at it.

Confused. Slightly concerned. A little sad.

That was my breaking point.

I confessed.

She took it well—better than I deserved, honestly—but she just nodded slowly, like she was reevaluating several life decisions, including living with me.

Roommates teach you a lot about life. Boundaries. Forgiveness. And apparently, that some midnight decisions should never involve dairy improvisation.

But I guess that is the beauty of it.

You live, you learn… and you try not to touch your roomates ice cream again…. But as for my husbands dairy treats….. free game 

History of Savior Redeemer of My Soul

 I found the following off this website 

https://odesandoracles.wordpress.com/orson-f-whitneys-vision-of-the-savior/

while I was searching for background to share singing 

Savior Redeemer of My Soul 

Then came a marvelous manifestation, and admonition from a higher source, one impossible to ignore. It was a dream, or a vision in a dream, as I lay upon my bed in the little town of Columbia, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I seemed to be in the Garden of Gethsemane, a witness of the Savior’s agony. I saw Him as plainly as ever I have seen anyone. Standing behind a tree in the foreground, I beheld Jesus, with Peter, James and John, as they came through a little wicket gate at my right. Leaving the three Apostles there, after telling them to kneel and pray, the Son of God passed over to the other side, where He also knelt and prayed. It was the same prayer with which all Bible readers are familiar: “Oh my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as Thou wilt.”

As He prayed the tears streamed down His face, which was toward me. I was so moved at the sight that I also wept, out of pure sympathy. My whole heart went out to Him; I loved Him with all my soul, and longed to be with Him as I longed for nothing else.

Presently He arose and walked to where those Apostles were kneeling– fast asleep! He shook them gently, awoke them, and in a tone of tender reproach, untinctured by the least show of anger or impatience, asked them plaintively if they could not watch with Him one hour. There He was, with the awful weight of the world’s sins upon His shoulders, with the pangs of every man, woman and child shooting through His sensitive soul– and they could not watch with Him one poor hour!

Returning to His place, He offered up the same prayer as before; then went back and again found them sleeping. Again He awoke them, readmonished them, and once more returned and prayed. Three times this occurred, until I was perfectly familiar with His appearance– face, form and movements. He was of noble stature and majestic mien– not at all the weak, effeminate being that some painters have portrayed; but the very God that He was and is, as meek and humble as a little child.

All at once the circumstances seemed to change, the scene remaining just the same. Instead of before, it was after the crucifixion, and the Savior, with the three Apostles, now stood together in a group at my left. They were about to depart and ascend into Heaven. I could endure it no longer. I ran from behind the tree, fell at His feet, clasped Him around the knees, and begged Him to take me with Him.

I shall never forget the kind and gentle manner in which He stooped, raised me up, and embraced me. It was so vivid, so real. I felt the very warmth of His body, as He held me in His arms and said in the tenderest tones: “No, my son, these have finished their work; they can go with me; but you must stay and finish yours.” Still I clung to Him. Gazing up into His face– for He was taller than I– I besought Him fervently: “Well, promise me that I may come to you at the last.” Smiling sweetly, He said, “That will depend entirely upon yourself.” I awoke with a sob in my throat, and it was morning.

…. I saw the moral clearly. I have never thought of being an Apostle, nor of holding any other office in the Church, and it did not occur to me then. Yet I knew that these sleeping Apostles meant me. I was asleep at my post — as any man is who, having been divinely appointed to do one thing, does another.

But from that hour, all was changed. I never was the same man again. I continued to write, but not to the neglect of the Lord’s work. I held that first and foremost; all else was secondary.” (Orson F. Whitney, “Through Memories Halls”, 1930, p. 82)

R

oice and meaning:

LITTLE UPDATE

I love you. Work here is going really well. I have the opportunity to care for burn patients and spinal cord injury children. Part of my job is debriding, which means we scrub burned tissue until it bleeds in order to remove damaged skin and prevent infection.

Sometimes it is really hard. There are moments when I am scrubbing their wounds and the children are crying and screaming for help. It brings tears to my eyes when they ask, “What did I do wrong? Why are you mad at me?” These kids range anywhere from two or three months old all the way to eighteen years old.

There are a lot of gospel parallels in this. It reminds me of the idea that God sometimes has to “rub us raw” in order for us to grow. Sometimes we try to heal ourselves when the wound is too deep, but it does not go well—it does not heal properly, and it can cause lasting damage. But when we allow proper debridement—or repentance—we are allowing God to create a surface that, once healed, is whole again. Not scarless in the sense of erased experience, but restored in a way that is clean, functional, and made new.

One of my favorite patients is a boy I will refer to as “A” (I cannot use his full name due to patient confidentiality). He is a burn patient and around the same age as Ezra. Eighty-five percent of his body was burned, and he has been in the hospital since this spring.

Whenever you talk to him, he rolls his eyes—not because he is being disrespectful, but because he thinks it is funny. That took me a while to understand; at first, I thought he was constantly annoyed with me. Over time, we have become good friends, and he brings me a lot of joy.

He will be going home soon, which I am happy about—he will finally return to the other side of the country and back to his life. But it is also bittersweet. I have grown attached, and I have seen glimpses of God’s love for this boy through my time caring for him. And now it is time to let him go.

Its been awhile

 Hey yall, unknown universe, noone hahaha

I made the original Adventures of Little Miss Me with a weird email account, so I had to recover it. Thus, it has been a few months.

I also realized that my first seven posts were written over the course of about six months and then published within a span of two days. It probably seems like I am a boy-crazed monster. It also does not help that I was in an Eternal Families class and had a lot of thought-provoking prompts given in class about marriage, relationships, etc.—and as we all know, I love using those essays for my blog.

Again, the purpose of my blog is that I have a tendency to have good ideas about things but never keep them in one place. While serving my mission for  The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I realized the power of consolidating our lives into coherent ideas—the power of reflection that allows the days to not fly by but rather be lived fully!

But I have learned a lot in the past bit and will be updating this.

over all I'm grateful for the life I have lived. Im Greatful for the ongoing restoration! 

I know Jesus Christ lives and saves!  

enjoy