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.