I’ve sat with my fingers hovering over the keyboard, a hot beverage next to me, for at least five minutes. Wanting to write something. Anything. Knowing I could play it easy by writing a “currently” list. As in, currently I am helping Kendell recuperate from his surgery, appreciating the fact that winter has finally come to the Wasatch, reading An American Marriage, knowing that I need to kick my sugar addiction but not sure how, sipping hot chocolate anyway. Or about the highlights of this February: snowshoeing, going running with Becky, the moment I had in the hospital with my mom when she finally seemed better; conversations with Nathan, the conversation with Kaleb’s heart doc when we learned that his heart is doing OK, conversations with my sisters.

Or I could write about my various shortcomings. 1. I set a running goal to work on in February: run twelve miles every week. I accomplished it for three weeks (I actually started during the last week of January), but then Kendell’s surgery happened. I should’ve taken that into consideration when I set the goal as I know how a recuperating-from-surgery spouse zaps not only most of your time but also 92% of your energy. (At least, it does to me; I find that old resentments surface when Kendell constantly needs attention and then I’m fighting myself to remain calm, kind, and patient when honestly sometimes I want to spark up a BUA.) 2. I started six different books this month: The Women in the Castle, The Immortalists, I Am, I Am, I Am, Wintersong, Thunderhead, and Good Bones. I finished exactly zero. There was nothing wrong with any of these books (well…Wintersong is a little bit dreadful in an abusive, Twilight-esque way), I just couldn’t commit. 3. I spent too much money on scrapbooking supplies and running clothes. I need neither of those things, but sometimes the allure of the new is just too much to resist.

What I really want to write about, though, is difficult to write about publicly. This is partly because it has to do with other people and their stories, and it has to do with relationships that have grown painful in different ways; much of it is just too personal for a blog. But I am still wrestling with it and until I figure it out I almost feel like nothing will get written. So here is what I am blogging about this snowy last Tuesday of February, in vague and metaphorical language: this change in my life that I am trying to understand.

I had a realization early in February that goes directly with being in my mid forties (this is a decade this is full of new wrinkles, new aches and pains, new weaknesses in my body, but also new realizations and new pieces of wisdom). I woke one morning with an sort of moving image in my head, of how all of my adult years have been spent moving toward an ideal version of my life, which is symbolized in the picture by a far-off house I can barely see. I’ve been moving toward that house thinking that there is where the happiness is. Where the peace and joy are. Where I will be loved for who I am and not for who people want me to be. Where I might be forgiven for all the mistakes I’ve made. And I thought all of my family were traveling with me toward that house—but that’s my realization. They aren’t. They are going their own way, finding their own paths. Making their own journeys. I am proud of them and I know they will arrive at great places. But I am realizing that the place I thought I was going to doesn’t exist. Or if it does, it is empty.

(All of that is so raw for me to write, even though it probably sounds like a mumbo-jumbo of weirdness.)

To put it in non-imagistic language: I’m almost 46 years old. Some time this year, Nathan will move out. Haley is graduating from college and moving to Denver. For the next five years, it will be me, Kendell, and Kaleb at home. And I can do anything I want with my life. I am of course my kids’ mother forever, but 75% of them don’t need me for very much. This is freeing—but also terrifying. I might be at a point where I can change my life, but it’s also my last chance to change my life. I’m not sure I did the last two decades right; I feel like I was blind in many ways, like I fooled myself into imagining a better version of what my life was like rather than looking at it with honesty and with the courage to deal with what was real instead of what I wanted to be real. I want to do better with the next two decades. I want to stop hoping for things that are never going to happen and stop wishing for things to change that are unlikely to change. Instead, I want to actively shape what my life looks like. I want to choose.

Kendell and I have been wanting to move for a few years now, but the time hasn’t seemed right, and with all of the medical things he’s been dealing with we honestly haven’t had the emotional bandwidth to process that idea. About eight months ago, a plot of land opened up in the town where we live. This doesn’t happen very often anymore; we’re almost full. But a farmer retired and sold his orchard, and I fell in love with a particular lot. It was south facing and had nothing behind it, so my view of Timp would’ve been unobstructed. I wanted that lot, wanted to build a house right there. But I didn’t pursue it much; we were waiting for some other decisions to be made, and besides: there’s no way we could afford a beautiful new house; we’re just not that family.

Once the decisions were made, we could finally see clearly that we could, for a fairly minimal investment, sell our current house and build that house I wanted on that lot. Except…when we went to talk to the builder, that lot was sold. Someone else gets to have my beautiful house on that perfect lot, they get to wake up and look out their second-story window at Timp every morning.

We lost out on that lot (and I can’t explain how rare it was in the first place) because of several things: fear, indecision, other people’s choices. But mostly it was because we didn’t value ourselves enough.

So, like that image of the house in the far-off distance (on a hill that was quilted with snow, and with a craggy mountain behind it, with a little brook off to the side and windows lit with warm, yellow light), the lot I didn’t buy has become a symbol. I didn’t pounce on the rare, valuable, never-to-be-repeated thing because I was afraid and because I didn’t value myself enough.

And I don’t want to do that with this current moment I am in. I want to see clearly what is rare and valuable, and I want to be brave enough to value myself. I want to know, somehow, perhaps for the first time in my life, that I, too, get to be happy. I want to see clearly what is real instead of putting my hopes into experiences that are out of my control. I want to build the second half of my life into something I can be proud of, not because I am proud of my kids (which I am), but because I am proud of myself. I want to achieve whatever it is I was supposed to achieve but haven’t yet.

Out of my kitchen window (I’m writing at the kitchen table because Kendell is using the office for work), my back yard is full of snow. Timp is snowy too, finally, but its very top is naked stone, as all the snow has been buffed away by the wind. Nathan and Kaleb are downstairs, Haley is away at college living her life, Jake is likely at work. This is what I have right now. It is time to turn away from that imagined view with the beautiful light, with its rooms filled with children. It is time to decide what I want to build.

It snowed!

I mean…I’m always excited when it snows. But this winter, when we’ve literally only had TWO small snow storms? This winter, I am excited for snow.

Still, when it started snowing last night, I did not get my hopes up. I fully expected to wake up to a dry skiff of snow. Because hoping for snow in a Utah drought is almost guaranteed to break your heart.

But I woke up to 10 beautiful inches of perfect white Utah powder. And I told Kendell: “I don’t care what happens today. I am going snowshoeing.”

My sister introduced me to snowshoeing two years ago, and I fell in love with it. But last year (the year I got snowshoes of my own for Christmas) I just didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to gather up all of my winter gear, decide which trail to follow, and drive myself there.

In fact, that was something I realized today, while I crunched through the snow: I am in such a better place, emotionally, this year than last. The evidence is the fact that gathering my gear and driving to the trailhead was exciting instead of overwhelming.

Once I figured out the bindings on my snowshoes, I was off. And I realized about three minutes along the trail: I was so happy.

I really am doing much better emotionally this year than last year. This is partly because one of the biggest trials I had last year is slowly starting to resolve itself, and partly because I’ve worked hard to actively manage my depression. And Prozac. But this year has been stressful in its own way: my mom has been sick and in the hospital for months, and there’ve been some other painful things come up. And this week, Kendell has a surgery (partial knee replacement) and Kaleb has his bi-annual heart check-up.

I am so terrified of that heart check-up. Kendell’s surgery will be difficult, of course, but on the scale of difficult surgeries, this one is pretty low. Kaleb, though. Once you’ve taken your baby in and been told bad news about his heart, it gets harder and harder to go back. Even though we have to go back every six months.

I didn’t realize just how tightly I’ve been holding my breath until I found myself smiling on that snowshoeing trail in the forest next to a burbling stream, My snowshoes swished through the fresh powder, and trees sprinkled snow on my head; my lungs tugged in and out, not used to the incline but happy to be filling with fresh, cold air.

And my heart felt at peace.

I love running and I plan on running my whole life. A large part of what I love about it is moving around outside. Even if it’s just running through suburbia. I’m not much of a trail runner, but I love being in the mountains, too. I hike as much as I can in the warm months, and I suppose I could go to the mountains in the winter to ski (I do live in Utah, after all). But I’m not a huge fan of snow skiing, especially as I get older. I don’t want the risk of blowing out a knee or damaging my ankle any more than I already have. But snowshoeing? It is the perfect winter sport for me. I can be out in the mountains and the snow, I can go as fast or as slow as I want, I can put myself back outside. I don’t need the adrenaline of the ski slope; I just need the quiet of an uphill trail in the snow.

I only snowshoed for about two miles today. But it was enough. Enough to bring peace to my heart and courage to my spirit. Kendell will be OK and we will survive another recovery. And Kaleb…I refuse to even guess. I hope with all that is in me to everything holy that his heart will be healthy enough for the next six months. But if it is not, if he has to have surgery, we will make it through that as well.

And hopefully the snow and the mountains, the naked trees and the happy creek, will be here for me again when I need them.

My friends Elizabeth Dillow and Angie Lucas are doing an Instagram challenge: take 18 photos on the 18th of each month in 2018. I totally missed it in January, but wanted to play along in February. Was determined to play along, even though 18 photos seemed like a lot.

I woke up with ideas for this month's topic—color—but I forgot something: the 18th is on a Sunday. And lately Sundays have been rough on me. If I make it to church, I feel one sort of sadness, and if I skip church I have another sort. Sundays are not equaling funday in my life. (More like "lose my temper day" or "cry because I'm feeling like my life has been worthless day.")

And, yeah...this Sunday was also not awesome. 

But watching for color helped keep me a little bit more focused, even though I only took nine photos instead of 18.

Anyway, I shared them on Instagram (I'm amylsorensen over there, come follow me if you don't already!), but I wanted to write something about each image. So I decided to share them here, too. And hopefully once March rolls around, I'll be a bit more emotionally ready for a Sunday and 18 photos!

I don't usually go running on Sunday. But we have two time-consuming (and stressful) medical experiences this week, and I still want to make my 12-miles-per-week goal, so I went running this morning. Probably it helped stabilize my mood anyway (quite of which is being influenced by my fear of those medical experiences). It was cold when I started, even though it was 45 degrees; the wind was biting and I was questioning my short-sleeves decision. But once I started moving it was just fine. These bright colors were perfect for a gloomy morning run.

I was thinking while I ran "OK, I am going to find some some color" and then I started thinking about how that is one of the hard parts of winter for me: there's really not any color. And why spring is so refreshing: color slowly returns. This winter has been especially blah as it's been so brown here. Brown, dry winters are the worst; if it's going to be cold it might as well be snowy and white. This was the view as I ran up the canyon trail this morning. Ecru, beige, khaki, umber, buff: yes, those are colors, but not very vibrant. (I still love running here. Those dramatic cliffs! Can you see where the fault line curves?)

The view on the way back down. Still blah colors...but a little bit of pale blue in the sky. There was a storm gathering, so that was the last bit of blue I saw today.

But here, with just a mile left, I realized: that is yellow! True—old, worn out, tired yellow, but yellow all the same.

There are also a bunch of these bushes in the canyon. I think they are pretty nondescript in the summer...but in winter, that violet-red is the only deep, vibrant color to be found.

After my run, I went to visit my mom, who is in the hospital (still...two months and counting now). I thought about taking a few photos there, her blue hospital gown maybe (and now I think about it, I wish I would've taken a few photos of just her hands), but I know she's not really feeling in a photo-taking mood. I was feeling less emotional about my life, but more emotional about her (and being in the hospital reminded me to not forget to worry about the upcoming stressful medical week), so when we got home I wandered around my yard. These little snow crocus were some of the best things I ever planted. They come up in February and wither away at about the time the daffodils start blooming. They are bright and cheery and remind me that color will come back to the world. 

Speaking of purple and yellow...I also have these brave little violets blooming in the space underneath my maple tree. I don't know where they came from, but they've been blooming since January. They are small...but determined.

Before I went running, I threw every piece of running clothes out of my drawer into a pile on the floor in my bedroom. (I told you...bad Sunday. Too much drama to explain this, but some swearing was involved.) So after I showered I tackled reorganizing all of these. Put away most of my winter running clothes, found all of my capris, told myself I don't need any more running clothes. If I had a photo of my closet, you'd see: almost all of my clothes are black. In my everyday activities, I like wearing black; it makes me feel both inconspicuous and a little bit elegant. But when I'm running? Sure...there's black in that pile. But I also love colorful exercise clothes. They help me feel motivated to get out the door, and it seems like inattentive drivers notice you more when you're wearing something bright.

Part of why I love scrapbooking is because of color. This is the next layout I'm going to make. I probably won't use 75% of what I pulled out...but, ooooooh, pretty.

My Sunday ended with a visit from my little niece and nephew. The youngest, Becca, is just two, and she wanted to show me her newest skill: telling the names of colors. Seriously! Could there be a more perfect end to today than finding colors with a cutie who would, every so often, just give me a hug.

Well, actually, something almost as good happened: it snowed! I can't wait to wake up in the morning and see the world finally made white again.

Yesterday was my 26^th wedding anniversary. Twenty six years…I’ve been married for much more than half my life. Sometimes my marriage has been difficult, sometimes fantastic, which I think is typical of most marriages. I don’t think it is ever easy, and sometimes I still look at Kendell and think wait a second. Who the hell are you?

But we are making it work, and I think our marriage has definitely improved, especially over the past five or six years. Maybe you have to be in your forties before you really start to understand what is worth it and what isn’t? I don’t know.

I’m just glad we made it this far. And I think the way I will celebrate this year is by running a marathon. Twenty six miles for twenty six years, yes!

Yesterday was my friend’s birthday, too. She posted a birthday summary and I thought it would be fun to answer those same questions but in the context of my marriage, instead of a birthday.

How will you spend your anniversary? Kendell went to work and I took a mental health day. I needed some solitude, and it was lovely. (Yes, I do see the weirdness in the fact that if I could ask for any gift for our anniversary, it would be time to myself. But that’s just how it worked out.) In the late afternoon, I went running while Kendell took Nathan to the bank. We’ve been trying to find a new car for him, as the ancient and battered Prism he’s been driving is just not going to work when he is off to college. A wise loan manager convinced them both that the car he’s been thinking about buying is definitely too expensive for him. He was sad but he knew it was true. I ended my run at the bank, and then the four of us (Nathan’s girlfriend Bailey was also there) went to Costa Vida for dinner. (Is it obvious that we don’t make a huge deal out of our anniversary?)

Compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer or poorer? A. Happier, as last winter was really, really difficult. B. Kendell is the same, weight-wise; I am thinner than I was last year at this time but still need to get out from under about ten pounds. C. That’s a loaded question! Last year we had to replace our roof, and we went on three trips, so in a sense we are poorer. But we’ve also managed to save some money, so…both?

What did you do last year that you’ve never done before? We took all the kids to Hawaii. Haley had been to the Big Island, but the rest of us hadn’t. Snorkeling as a family with dolphins was one of the highlights of my life! Went to Ventura, hiked in the Los Padres national forest in California. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s the first time we’ve gone to California without the kids. Took the Staten Island ferry on our trip to New York City.

What was your favorite discovery last year? 1. The Footloose soundtrack is really fun to listen to while you’re driving across the California desert. 2. We really do take turns in being upset/frustrated with different things…which means we take turns in trying to cheer each other up. It’s much harder when we’re both upset at the same time.

What do you hope to learn this coming year? It’s not exactly “learning.” But I hope we come to a good decision about whether or not we should move. I really want a new house that is smaller than the one we have now (we don’t need as much space anymore, as come autumn it will just be me, Kendell, at Kaleb at home) and better designed, with a kitchen/family room combo space. Plus I think it would be good for Kaleb if we moved to a neighborhood with more kids his age. (Where we are, there is only one.) On the other hand…we’ve lived in this house for 24 years, and the thought of leaving it, the place where I brought my babies home and my kids grew up, not to mention my trees and rosebushes and flowers and neighbors: that also rips my guts out. We keep going back and forth with this decision and I just really want to figure out what is best and then stick with that choice.

What would you like to have this year that you didn’t have last year? Stronger relationships with our kids; less stress and more peace.

What was your biggest achievement over the last year? Kendell: No hospital stay! Got a new job. Amy: had an essay accepted for publication; ran a half marathon. Us as a couple: We really do understand each other better this year. We’ve had several ah-ha revelations about each other.

What was your biggest failure? Not picking up on the clues that Kaleb was having trouble with “friends” at school. Losing our tempers and shouting too much.

Where did you travel this year? Hawaii in May with the kids. We drove to Seattle because the flights there were much cheaper (really, the only way we could afford to take everyone to Hawaii was those cheap flights) and I sort of fell in love with the Pacific Northwest. I’ve never been somewhere where I thought “If I had to move here it would be OK,” but I felt that way about Seattle. California in August. This was a trip that was meant to be the four of us…me, Kendell, Nathan, and Kaleb. But Nathan couldn’t go because of a volleyball tournament, and Kaleb didn’t want to go without Nathan. So instead, it was just the two of us. We spent one day hiking in Bryce Canyon and camped there overnight. Took a day to drive from Bryce to Santa Barbara, stopping at Zion on the way. We mostly just putzed, relaxed, walked on the beach, drove around, but there was also some hiking. One day we took a boat out to Santa Cruz island and hiked; one day we tried to find a waterfall that was apparently dried out, despite what my guide book said. It was a relaxing and lovely little getaway and the one I said was to celebrate our 25^th anniversary (a little bit late). New York in November. This is our second fall of going to NYC. We did some different things this time and fell more in love with the city.

Do you have a destination in mind for next year? I’m feeling a hiking trip at the Grand Canyon coming on—I’ve only been there once, when I was a kid, and Kendell has never been. I’d also really like to go back to Seattle. I’m planning on running the San Francisco marathon in July (but I am not going to commit until Kaleb has his heart check up next week, just in case).

What did you get excited about? Our new car. We’ve had a minivan since December of 2000. But we sold ours this summer (after getting home from Seattle) and got a Highlander, since we don’t need so much space. It’s been fun…it feels like our first grown up car!

What do you wish you’d done more of? More hiking. Kendell’s knee bothered him all summer and we found out he has to have surgery on it (partial replacement next week). So we didn’t hike as much as we wanted to. Hopefully he’ll be healed by the time it warms up and we can hit the trail at least once a week.

What do you wish you’d done less of? Hmmmmmmmm. Less waffling, more decision making.

What was the best book you read? Well, as Kendell isn’t a reader, I’m going to change this question to: What TV shows do you watch together? Grey’s Anatomy, SVU, The Walking Dead, Game of Thrones, Chicago Fire, Chicago Med.

What did you want and get? Lots of traveling. I

What did you want and not get? A totally healthy year. YES, Kendell didn’t have to have any surgeries. But his energy level is still low, and his knee bothered him for most of the year. I just want things to be even and normal. Also, a very snowy winter. We’ve basically had NO WINTER and it is driving me nuts.

What one thing would’ve made your year immeasurably more satisfying? Closer relationships with our kids.

What kept you sane? Me: running. Kendell: finding a new job at a company where he feels a little bit more appreciated.

What political issues stirred you the most? We both are pretty involved in watching politics and staying up on the news. We were never this involved in it until the whole trump fiasco. But when one of us gets going about issues like the environment, the cost of health care, the general sense of moral degradation etc we light up.

Did you fall in love? A successful marriage requires falling in love often. Sometimes he made me so mad I could shake him, and I’m sure he’d say the same thing about me. But we also drew closer together.

Who did you miss? Haley and Jake, who are out in the world making their lives.

What did you learn about your relationship this year? (I changed this last question.) We learned to trust each other more. Kendell really, really learned what Black Amy is all about (as he wasn’t around the last time my depression was as bad as it was this year) and that mental health issues are not weakness or silliness but real, debilitating medical conditions. I learned that he can understand that. We learned to be more patient with each other. And we are starting to realize that the next decade will bring several significant changes that are exciting…so growing older isn’t all bad.

In my life, I tend to figure out things by writing about them. I know this doesn’t work for everyone, but for me, writing is a thinking process (as well as a form of therapy sometimes): I start with a concept that is troubling me, and if I write about it enough I can eventually understand how I feel about it. It is much harder for me to do this with spoken words.

One of the concepts that I write about quite a bit in my personal journal is my relationship with my faith. I am a Mormon person, and this relationship shapes quite a bit of my life. I cannot say it is an easy relationship, and sometimes I’m not sure it is a good relationship. But not always, and there are things I love about my faith. It helps me be a better, kinder, more Christ-like person.

I don’t blog about my faith very much, however (even though this is my second religion-based post this week!), because my relationship is so complicated. I think the non-Mormon part of society sees LDS people in two lights: weirdos or saints. I barely have the emotional energy to work out my own issues, let alone explaining how we fall somewhere in between that spectrum (as all faiths do; as all people do).

But I woke up this morning thinking a strange thought: not my church. In the same tone as the hashtag “not my president.” This is because of the Rob Porter issue happening in Washington right now, not because there is yet another example of trump-era squalor, but because Porter is also LDS. It really isn’t the White House I am upset with. Like draws to like; I am no longer surprised by the corruptness driving our nation’s leadership. Of course trump would hire a man who beat his wife, because trump is a man who sees women as objects, not as people; he would likewise be drawn to men who see women in the same light.

No, who I am upset with in this issue is the LDS church. My faith. Because both of Porters’ wives went to their bishops (which is the ecclesiastical leader we are closest with) and asked for help…but neither of them received it. The details of these conversations aren’t shared anywhere that I know of, but as an LDS woman I can surmise what the “advice” was. “Work harder at your marriage.” “Be forgiving.” “Pray more.” Even, I would imagine, “you might be overreacting.”

This, friends, is not help. This is abuse. This is shaming. This is prioritizing appearance—LDS churches are full of happy, perfect families!—over reality. This is saying that keeping a marriage together is more important than safety, calm, kindness, or love.

This is making a golden calf out of marriage.

These sorts of things happen because in the LDS church, the leadership is made up of lay clergy: everyday members who are chosen as leaders. There is wisdom in this practice—sometimes. But there is also the possibility for great folly here. Being called to be the bishop doesn’t impart all of the world’s wisdom. A bishop is still just a man with his usual knowledge. And unless that bishop also happens to be a trained therapist or psychiatrist, he doesn’t have the knowledge or skills to help an abused woman. He can offer to pray for her. He could give her a blessing of comfort. But if his first piece of advice isn’t either “here is a list of therapists who might be able to help” or “what can I do to help you get to a safe place?” then he is perpetuating the abuse.

In my life, I have asked a bishop for help exactly one time. This was when I was a teenager, and my bishop also happened to be the principal of my high school. When I was deep inside my darkest and hardest years, I went to him and asked for advice. His answer? “You used to be a gymnast. Why don’t you join the cheerleading squad? You would be comfortable in those short skirts they wear.” No effort was made to explore why I was behaving the way I was. It was just assumed that I was a bad person, and that could be redeemed by…what? Encouraging the football team to win via flashing them my lovely legs? Those aren’t the words of a loving, religious leader. Those are the words of a man who has no clue how to help someone with mental health issues, and also a man who has no clue as to how damaging words can be.

That conversation was a form of spiritual abuse.

Nor was it, I have learned, an isolated incident.

Abuse isn’t a thing that can be “fixed.” The abuser’s actions aren’t caused by the abused person’s behaviors; they are the responsibility of the abuser, not the abused. Praying for it to end won’t make it end. Working harder to be a “good” wife won’t make it end.

Ending the relationship makes the abuse end.

I’m obviously not a trained psychologist. I’m no more equipped to help a woman who is being abused than my bishop is. Except for the fact that I am a woman. And I have friends who have been physically abused by their husbands. And also because I am not sure I have ever met a man who isn’t capable, in some form or another, of emotional abuse (not even my own husband). Except, the first thing I read this morning was Colby Holderness’s essay in The Washington Post. Even without that photo of her black eye, even with just her words, there is no doubt that Rob Porter is lying when he denies these accusations. The voice she writes with is the voice of a woman who has experienced abuse. You learn those intimate details only one way: by experiencing it.

And when she did experience it, her religious leaders didn’t help her get out.

Leaders of my faith tell us often that they value women. But this sort of story makes me ask: what are we valued for? As living, breathing human beings with purpose, ambition, goals, with the burning desire to live all of this life we’ve been given? Or as wombs?

If it is as wombs, then the church is no better than the president: it sees women as objects (albeit in a different light).

If it is as human beings, it is time for the church to act instead of just offer words. It is time for the church to listen to women and then to help them in functional, productive, healthy ways. I have no doubt that the Mormon church can do this. There are probably instances when it does. But Colby Holderness’s experience is the reality, not the exception.

And I know: I know some of my very closest friends might be cringing at this little post of mine. They might be thinking I am apostate, or I lack faith, or who are you to criticize the church? Who I am is a person with a conscious and a brain that God gave me, and a faith that is centered in Christ who said “do unto others.” I am a woman who believes with every ounce of my being that women matter as much as men. And I will not be quiet. I will not hush my voice or squelch my knowledge. And my knowledge is this:

The church must do a better job. It must stop being afraid to acknowledge the fact that abuse, both emotional and physical, happens. Even in the very “best” of LDS families it happens. Prayer isn’t action; faith without works is dead. When a woman opens up to a religious leader about abuse, that religious leader has a moral obligation to assist rather than to shame. To act, to serve, to do something.

Sometimes I write about my faith in order to figure out how to make sense of it. But I will not twist this into something sensible. It is something wrong. It is a symptom of a deeper problem: the belief that holding the priesthood makes a man into a good man. It doesn’t, just like becoming a bishop doesn’t make a man into a professional capable of helping people with emotional trauma. But it is also easily fixed; bishops and other leaders should receive better training, and a large part of that training should be the skill of listening and then acting.

If the church truly values women as people, it must change.

The end of 2016 and the winter of 2017 were really, really rough months for me. Many things in my psyche—my way of seeing myself, my belief in myself as a good, decent person, my faith in my ability to be a good mom—were altered in irreparable ways. My relationship with many things changed, and I am still, more than a year later, sorting through the damage from those months.

One of the things that changed was my relationship with running. Looking back at 2017, I can see why I struggled with my weight (other than the drinking of too many comfort beverages and absolutely no limits on my chocolate consumption): I was running, sure. I was running because I know how not running makes coping even more difficult for me. But I was barely running enough. Sometimes I’d go entire weeks without exercising, even in the summer. I didn’t really fall out of love with running, but for most of last year, going for a run felt more like medication than meditative movement. Running was one of the things that got me through, but I couldn’t yet feel any real sense of joy in it (or anything, really).

So here I am, two weeks into my goal of running at least twelve miles a week for five weeks. My legs are clearly readjusting…my right hamstring is so tight and my left popliteus is struggling a bit. My hips are a little bit achy and my plantar fascia is twingy. But I still finished week two with 13.2 miles.

On Thursday, I needed to go to Provo to visit my mom at the hospital. So I decided to stop at a trailhead on the river parkway and run there.
The Provo River Trail is about 15 miles long, and it runs from Vivian Park in Provo Canyon all the way down to Utah Lake. I do a lot of runs on the north part of the trail in the canyon, but fewer on this south part, and the trailhead where I parked is the spot where I usually turn around. So my run that day was on a part of the trail I’ve only run on once before (when I did the Provo City Half Marathon). This section runs behind houses and through fields, and all of it is surrounded with trees. There were ducks in the water, and a few fishermen; it was cloudy but not unbearably cold (once I started I was glad I wore a short skirt instead of capris). I kept my headphone out on the river-facing side of my face, so I could hear my music and the sound of the water.

I only went a bit more than three miles on that run. But when I finished and was stretching on the grassy spot near the parking lot, I felt like dancing. Because it all came rushing over me: the love of running. The feel of being outside and moving my body through the world. The mountains in the distance and the singing of the river and my tired legs. Tired in a good way; tired after working hard. I did my backwards half-moon yoga stretch and looked at the sky through the tangle of trees and I just…I filled up again with how much I love running.

I remembered: it’s not only for the therapy. It’s not only for keeping the darkness at the edges. It’s not only medicine. It is also joy at being here, right now, in this body, in this place, on this earth with this life. With my beating heart and my pulsing lungs and my tired, happy legs.

I love running because it is the thing that makes me feel most alive.

When I got to the hospital, the first thing my mom said was “I’d really like a hug from my girl.”

“OK,” I said, “but I have to warn you, I might be smelly.” She didn’t care, though. She wanted a hug, so I hugged her. This is great news, as she has been so ill for the last two months that even just interacting seems problematic. That day she, too, seemed more alive. More joyful. I sat down on the chair next to her bed and started talking, and eventually our conversation turned to running.

“I’m so glad you keep up with running,” she said. “When you are my age you’ll be much healthier for it. Plus you are strong and amazing.” (Maybe she had more pain meds in her system than I knew about!)

And that is goal: to keep up with running. To never lose my love of it, to never break up. Sure: I might get slower. I might walk more than I run as I get older. It might sometimes feel less joyous than usual. But I’m committed.

I’m in it for the long haul.

I don’t have many memories of going to church as a child, mostly because we almost never went, but the ones I do have are fairly vivid. During one of the stretches we were going to church, I remember sitting in my primary class listening to the story of Noah’s ark. As I listened to the teacher tell the story of the animals coming on board the ark, two by two, I had a thought that made me squirm in my chair a little, I wanted to share it so badly. As I was a shy girl who almost never said anything in any class at all, let alone a church class where I didn’t feel comfortable or welcome at all, it was a scary thing to me, sharing my thoughts. But I was brave. After she told the story, I raised my hand and said “this story reminds me of the book I am reading right now, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” Then I started to say why they felt the same to me—the animals I guess—but before I could get more than a few words out, the teacher stopped me.

“There is no similarity at all between those two. The scriptures aren’t fairy tales.” Her voice was heavy with scorn, and then she talked about something else. (You can guess how often I said anything in church after that.)

As I was only six or seven when this happened, I am interpreting the experience through my adult lens, of course. And there are quite a few ways that Sunday influenced me. But one of them was my stubborn insistence (silent, spoken only in my head forever after) that they are the same, because they are both stories. Of course there are no magic rings that take us to Narnia, just as there are no boats big enough to hold all of the animals. These are stories, with characters who have adventures and grow up and change. Stories!

And I liked both of them.

I thought about that experience a lot this weekend, when I was preparing my lesson for church today. The topic? Noah’s ark. And as I read and studied different things, it hit me: some Christians—many, in fact—believe that the flood was a literal event that happened just like it is explained in the Bible.

I finally had to stop my lesson preparation and talk to Kendell and a few friends, just so I could get some perspective. Do people believe that really happened? Wait, what? The answers I got varied; some friends said yes, some said no, a few said “hmmmm, I’ve never really thought about it.”

And I had some deeply anxious moments of questioning my own belief system. I often feel like this—that somewhere there exists a rule book of things that Mormons (and Christians in general) believe and don’t believe, do and don’t do. Except I’ve never read it—because while yes, I grew up as an LDS girl in a seemingly LDS family, we really very rarely went to church until after my grandpa died, so while we looked like Mormons I actually feel like a convert—and so I am constantly bumping into things I didn’t know about my faith.

Like the fact that some people believe in the realness of the story of Noah’s ark.

Even when I was that little, pagan-hearted shy kid, I thought it was just a story, because how could all of the animals fit? And how did Noah get all of the animals from all across the world? (If you are interested in reading the many, many reasons why the story of Noah's ark is a story, try this essay. It's really interesting.) I still liked the imagery of it, the storyness of the story. But I never questioned that it was anything other than a story from the scriptures. (For the record, I feel the same way about Jonah inside the whale.)

So for a while, I was stymied at how I could teach a Sunday School lesson about Noah’s ark. I can’t pretend I think it really happened in the way the scriptures tell the story. And I didn’t know that I could stand in front of a class without shouting REALLY? Don’t you see all the logical holes in this plot?

But I don’t think that would be a class anyone would learn anything from.

So I took a deep breath, put on my Big Teacher pants (which are similar to Big Girl Panties, of course, and perhaps related to Smarty Pants), and thought about whether or not it matters. Does it matter if Noah’s ark is a real story? (A story of something that happened in history.) or a true story? (A story that both entertains and relates human truth, knowledge, experience, or some combination of all three.) For me—a person who loves and quite often learns from non-real stories, it doesn’t. (At least…aside from my bafflement that we’re supposed to believe it is real.)

This is because a story really doesn’t have to be real to be true.

And that long-ago primary teacher was wrong: the scriptures are like fairy tales. (And The Chronicles of Narnia aren’t fairy tales, anyway; they are allegorical Christian fantasy.) There are truths in fairy tales, too, even if sprites, pixies, and goblins don’t really exist. There are things for us to learn from stories. Christ himself taught in parables, so why can’t the Old Testament do the same?

(And really: does thinking that the Noah’s Ark story is an allegory make me a bad, faithless Christian?)

So for my lesson, I taught about what we can learn from the story of Noah’s ark. (I didn’t even bring up the real/not real issue.) There are many truths to be found there if you look at the story through a metaphorical or symbolic lens. Just the concept of an ark itself, a thing that God tells us to prepare so that when our personal flood comes we have a safe place to be, is a topic we could’ve discussed the whole class period. But there was one truth I really wanted to remember from this experience with the story of Noah’s ark. Before the flood, God grieves over the wickedness of his children. He “repents himself” of making humanity in the first place; in other words, he grieves for their mistakes. Then he judges them, as is God’s prerogative, and starts over.

Through judgement comes utter destruction.

It made me think of the relationships I have in which I’ve grieved over the choices of others. Not because they were wicked or evil, but because they were painful to me in some way. There is a connection—God grieves, too, which makes me feel a strange sense of peace. I am not alone in that sadness. But at the same time, I am not God. I don’t have the wisdom to judge anyone. But I do, as I think about this story, have the wisdom to see how destructive and devastating judgement can be. So I will grieve, but I will not judge. I will not put to waste everything that I have made because it isn’t exactly what I imagined it would be. Instead I will just keep loving and trying and moving forward.

And I will consider Noah, who I am also like. He lived in a desert, and God told him to make a boat. He couldn’t have known why, exactly, or what would happen, but he still did it, still wrestled into shape an impossible and seeming illogical concept. I am often invested in a similar work, in making something that seems illogical because God (or, quite often, the experiences of my life) asks me to. I think as a religious (or am I simply spiritual? I am still working that out) person in contemporary society, I must do that more and more. I must try to understand what is not always legible, I must have enough faith to make something that initially seems illogical. It is difficult and I am often dumbfounded and unsure. But I will keep trying to make my ark, and if I know myself, and if God also knows me, it will be made of true stories.

As part of my continuing efforts to blog more consistently, I am working on creating a more obvious schedule. And as part of my continuing efforts to rededicate myself to running more, I think I’m going to blog on Mondays about running.

In November I ran a half marathon when we went to New York City. It was my slowest half ever, as I decided to do it without really having enough time to train—my longest run was only eight miles.

The Brooklyn Fall Half Marathon was my first out-of-state race. I won second place in my age division!

I loved the race, and the trip itself, and the fact that I managed to finish without properly training. On the flight home, one of the things I wrote in my travel journal was a goal to keep running through the winter, as this is the habit I’ve developed: run pretty consistently through spring, summer, and fall, but do nothing in the winter. Resulting in having to start all over with my fitness and weight goals.

I can’t get ahead of my issues that way.

But we got home from our trip and then the whirlwind of the holidays started: Nathan’s birthday, Thanksgiving, a cold, Christmas prep, my mom had to be admitted to the hospital, another cold, December depression, more Christmas prep, Christmas, another freaking cold, January. We haven’t had much of a winter here in Utah and I could’ve been running comfortably all January, but my mom is still in the hospital, and Kendell has been working from home which is making me grumpy and frustrated, and, I don’t know. January depression is worse than December depression. I ran a few times, did a few half-hearted gym workouts, and drank too many warm (sweet) beverages.

So it’s February and I’m at the spot I promised myself in the airplane flying home from NYC that I wouldn’t get to: out of running shape again and needing to lose ten pounds. The same damn ten pounds I lost last year.

Someone somewhere online (a Facebook group? Instagram post? I don’t remember!) posted that instead of making a yearly goal, they were going to set weekly goals. And that seemed like a great idea, so last Sunday I set myself the following weekly goal:

Over the next 5 weeks, run 12 miles a week.

I want to keep it simple. And achievable. If I run more than 12 miles, fantastic. But always at least twelve. That way, by the start of March, I will have put in a solid (if somewhat smallish amount compared to other runners) 60 miles, built my endurance back up, reminded me feet, knees, and hips what it feels like to run consistently, and hopefully run through and past my winter depression.

For week one of my 5-week challenge, I ran 13.4 miles. I ended up in a total funk on Thursday, and I needed to visit my mom that day too, but as I work on Fridays that put me in a pinch. But I really wanted to achieve my goal (mostly to prove to myself that I could do it), so I brought running clothes to work, changed in the bathroom (which is really kind of gross), and hit the road as soon as I finished my shift. I was meeting Kendell at the rec, where he was working out, and my route there ended up being four miles instead of three, and the last 1.5 miles I ran pretty slow because it was dark and I didn’t have a headlamp.

But I got the miles in! Having that goal made me not blow off my running plans and it kept me focused. I’m pretty excited to keep trying to accomplish at least 12 miles for the next four weeks. I’m trying to not obsess about losing weight, but just to focus on rebuilding my running habit. I’ll weigh myself on the 7^th, 20^th, and March 3^rd but I’m not going to count on any weight loss yet.

I’m also going to add a different goal each week. This week my goal is to increase my veggie intake by having some sort of vegetable with every meal.

Here’s to a successful week!