2015 Lit Blitz – Mormon Lit Blitz

2015 Mormon Lit Blitz Winner

James Goldberg — Mon, 08 Jun 2015 14:38:50 +0000

Declaring a winner in a literary contest is silly in many ways. As the ballots and comments make clear, different pieces resonated with readers for different reasons–a piece might resonate with you because you feel a deep connection to the theme, because the story speaks to your life experience in some way, because of a line that lingers with you days after you read the piece, or because on the day you read the piece, you needed the emotional experience it offered.

We love it when people vote, though. Several of you commented on how you enjoyed the process of going through the pieces again. Some kept writing after ranking their top four and told us what they loved about a few other pieces that hadn’t quite made their ballot. And a few people mentioned how the pieces inspired them to start working on their own short-form writing, or how they changed their ideas about Mormon Lit.

The purpose of this contest has been to show off Mormon writers, but an important side-effect has been to reassure us that engaging Mormon readers also exist.

Here’s what you voted for this time around:

4th place (tie):

“Echo of Boy” by Darlene Young

“Angry Sunbeam” by Eric Jepson

3rd place:

“Should Have Prayed for a Canoe,” by Julia Jeffery

2nd place:

“Best Wedding Advice Ever,” by Heather Young

1st place:

“Faded Garden” by Emily Harris Adams

Congratulations to the winners, and thank you again to all who participated and voted.

We hoped you’ll come back to join us this fall for our themed contest and next spring for the fifth annual Lit Blitz. This fall’s theme is “Classic Forms, Contemporary Poems”–we’ll be accepting poems that relate to modern Mormon life in poetic forms that existed before 1830. Details on deadline, requirements, and prize purse will follow shortly.

Lit Blitz Voting Instructions

James Goldberg — Sun, 31 May 2015 03:49:38 +0000

We have enjoyed all twelve finalists. But we only have one Grand Prize. Help us decide which piece wins this year’s Lit Blitz by emailing a ranking of your four favorite pieces to everydaymormonwriter@gmail.com by the end of the day on Saturday, June 6th.

The contestants are:

Monday, May 18th: Eric Jepson, “Angry Sunbeam”
Tuesday, May 19th: Heather Young, “Best Wedding Advice Ever”
Wednesday, May 20th: Tyler Chadwick, “Three Meditations on Fatherhood”
Thursday, May 21st: Scott Hales, “Child Star”
Friday, May 22nd: Emily Harris Adams, “Faded Garden”
Saturday, May 23rd: Katherine Cowley, “The Five Year Journal”

Monday, May 25th: Annaliese Lemmon, “Disability, Death, or Other Circumstance”
Tuesday, May 26th: William Morris, “The Joys of Onsite Apartment Building Management” Wednesday, May 27th: Darlene Young, “Echo of Boy”
Thursday, May 28th: Lehua Parker, “Decorating Someone Else’s Service”
Friday, May 29th: Julia Jeffery, “Should Have Prayed for a Canoe”
Saturday, May 30th: Merrijane Rice, “Mother”

Again: in order to be counted, votes must contain a ranking of the reader’s four favorite pieces and must be emailed to everydaymormonwriter@gmail.com by the end of the day Saturday, June 6th. Voters should have at least skimmed all twelve pieces. We also welcome comments and feedback on the contest in vote emails.

For those who are interested, a public discussion of the pieces is taking place on the Mormon Midrashim blog. We’d love to have you share your thoughts on the contest there.

Come back to this blog on Monday, June 8th to find out who won this year’s Lit Blitz and for the announcement of our fall contest theme.

“Mother” by Merrijane Rice

James Goldberg — Sat, 30 May 2015 06:01:24 +0000

You haven’t left yet,
but when you do
I’ll remind the children how you
made sandwiches on warm wheat bread,
stocked popsicles in your outdoor freezer,
filled closets with homemade quilts.

I’ll tell them old stories
of you pacing restless nights away,
waiting for flown teenagers.
Mothers never sleep well, you’d say.I’ll show them how to make
hand-pulled honey candy
from notes I scratched out
that day I called you, craving.

I’ll teach them how to scrape
buttery flesh from artichoke leaves,
lift pastry sheets untorn into bed,
fill strawberry pots with petunias, phlox, asters—
anything but strawberries.

I’ll sing them up mornings,
kneel them down evenings,
fast them full, pray them safe
each breathing moment.

But even if I squeeze out
every drop you poured into me,
those bitter-sweet juices
can only flow so long.

So when you go,
leave the door ajar.
Peek in while we sleep,
whisper reminders
of how to measure hems straight
and the best way to comfort
newborn puppies.

“Should Have Prayed For a Canoe” by Julia Jeffery

James Goldberg — Fri, 29 May 2015 06:01:13 +0000

As soon as Brother Gardner opened the door, Shelley held out Sister Black’s old flip phone to him. “Do you have anything bigger or better than this?” she asked.

“Something you’ll trade us?” Abbie added.

Brother Gardner took the phone and looked to me with raised eyebrows.

“It’s a game the youth are playing,” I said, feeling our time limit tick nearer. “For their activity tonight.”

“Is that so?” Brother Gardner beamed at my three charges: a Mia Maid, a Beehive, and a Deacon. Then his eyes lit up. “I have something much bigger. Wait here a tick.”

Much bigger? From an eccentric like Brother Gardner, that could mean anything.

Dear Heavenly Father, I prayed, please don’t send us a canoe.

We waited an eternity under the weak porch light. Planes coming into Seattle blinked in the darkening sky and vanished behind the tops of the evergreens. I wished he’d hurry. If we arrived late at the stake center, we’d lose points.

Finally, Brother Gardner shuffled up the hall carrying a golden poster frame. My mouth relaxed into a smile, then tightened when I saw what the frame contained. Some sort of black and white minimalist deco painting. Of a nude woman’s back.

I was about to decline (and maybe ask for a canoe instead), but Shelley took the poster.

“Cool,” she said, turning it this way and that. “It’s artsy.”

The three kids jogged back along the walkway to my car. “Come on, Sister Bigsby,” David called.

I stammered out a thank you to Brother Gardner and hustled after them. Shelley wedged the poster frame into the back seat, and we all hopped in.

As I pulled out of the driveway, Abbie brought up a map on her phone. “We’re going to Bishop’s next?” she asked.

With that? Like heck. My fingers sweated on the steering wheel. “Is there anyone else on the way? How about Sister Redding?”

“I heard she moved,” said Shelley from the back seat.

I frowned. “That can’t be right.” Who up and moves after growing roots for fifty years?

“She’s not listed in the ward directory,” said Abbie, looking at her phone.

If a computer mistake left me off the directory, would they think I’d disappeared? “Don’t worry,” I said. “I know the way.”

I also knew I couldn’t turn up at the bishop’s house with that poster.

I followed the curly suburban roads to Sister Redding’s, where we piled out of the car. David unwedged the poster. It dwarfed him. At least we couldn’t get anything bigger.

Besides a canoe, of course.

Abbie knocked, and a middle-aged man wearing a wife-beater answered the door. A son-in-law, maybe? “Is Sister Redding here?”

The man stared. “You looking for a nun?”

Shelley stifled an attack of giggles. “She did move! Oh my gosh, he’s not a member.”

I started to apologize, but David spoke up. “We’re from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and we’re playing bigger or better.”

“Oh, gotcha,” said the man. “You’re trading that poster?”

“Yep.”

He took the frame from David and smiled. “I got something way better. Hang on.” As he disappeared into another room, I eyed our little missionary with mingled pride and aggravation.

Soon the man returned with a plant in a plastic pot. The plant had green, seven-pointed leaves.

Honest to goodness marijuana.

“We can’t take that,” I said. Did this guy miss the part about a church, or the fact that giving drugs to minors is a felony?

But David already had the weed in his hands. He looked up at me. “Why not?”

The man scratched his head. “Is there a rule against living things?”

“No, but that’s—” I sputtered, “isn’t that—”

“A Japanese maple sapling.” Abbie brought her face right to the pot. “They’re really neat trees.”

“Yeah,” said the man, nodding. “I grow them as a hobby.”

Hobby. Recreation. Sure.

“Thanks, nice person,” Shelley said, waving as she headed for the car with the others. The man closed his door before I found my voice again.

Why not a canoe! At least then I wouldn’t be risking my soul on a preteen’s knowledge of botany.

“Now to Bishop’s?” Abbie asked as I climbed into the driver’s seat.

With “Mary Jane” possibly riding in the back? Bishop could never know about this. I’d have to swear the kids to secrecy.

Or would that constitute a secret combination?

“We don’t have time anymore,” I said, not consulting my watch. I drove toward the church. “Who can we stop by on the way back?”

“Um, there’s the Petersons.” Abbie tapped at her phone screen. “Turn left up here.”

Thank goodness. The Petersons could give us something normal. I checked my mirrors for blue and red lights all the way to their house. As we arrived, the motion-sensitive garage light blazed like Judgment Day. We went to the door and knocked. No answer.

Someone had to be home, though. A baby was screaming upstairs.

A minute limped by. Then footsteps approached, and the door opened. Sister Peterson stood before us wearing pajamas and a quavering smile. A wet-eyed baby boy sat on her hip.

“Hi, Sister Peterson. We’re playing bigger or better,” said Shelley. David offered the suspicious flora.

Without hesitation, Sister Peterson took the plant and placed her baby in Abbie’s arms.

I stared.

I could handle nude posters.

I could deal with drugs.

But kidnapping?

I should have prayed for a canoe.

David clapped. “We’re winning this thing!”

“Are you sure, Sister Peterson?” Abbie asked as the baby grabbed at her nose.

Sister Peterson produced a diaper bag and a car seat from behind the door. “Absolutely. Where are you headed next?”

“The church,” said Shelley.

“Perfect. I’ll pick him up there in half an hour. Is that all right, Sister Bigsby?” Half-pleading in her pale blue pajamas, Sister Peterson looked to me.

I laughed.

Kidnapping it was.

I hefted the diaper bag. “Sounds great.”

And maybe better than a canoe after all.

“Decorating Someone Else’s Service,” by Lehua Parker

James Goldberg — Thu, 28 May 2015 06:01:59 +0000

Last night my daughter stormed into the kitchen spitting nails after her Young Women’s activity. “Do you know what we did?”
“Is this a trick question?” I asked. “Do you need bail money?”
“No.”
I put down the frying pan and placed a finger on my temple, channeling my inner psychic. “I’m getting a picture.” I fake swooned. “Lots of teenage girls. Loud girls. All in a room. An LDS church, maybe? The mists of time are unclear.”
My daughter sighed and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. No one knows how she suffers with a mother like me.
“Mom, our activity was making little toy lizards to go on backpacks.”
“Okaaay,” I said, dunking the pan into the dishwater. “And the earth-shattering problem is you didn’t want one for your backpack?”
Crunch. “The lizards weren’t for us.” Smack, apple slurp. “They were for kids in Africa. It was a service project. I asked how tiny beaded lizards were a service project—wouldn’t starving kids in Africa rather have a sandwich?”
“Well—”
“I’d rather have a sandwich.”
“Honey—”
“You know what Sister Johnson said? The beaded lizards aren’t even toys; they’re just fun little things to attach to the outsides of backpacks.”
“So it’s the start of a humanitarian project. That’s good. What do you need to bring—”
She dropped the apple core in the trash. “You’re not getting it. It’s not the start; it’s the end. Other people already filled the backpacks with things kids need.” She spun her finger in the air and tossed her hair back. “This wasn’t a service project—this was decorating someone else’s service project.” She flopped on a bar stool, deeply and thoroughly disgusted.
I heard her loud and clear. In her mind there was a critical need, but others thought her and the rest of the Young Women capable of only a trivial contribution.
But I also understood why the YW leaders thought creating little beaded lizards was a brilliant weekly activity: service project, check; fun thing to do, check; simple and inexpensive, check; all girls can participate, check. Four checkmarks. Awesome-sauce. Now who has an idea for the following week?
There is one inescapable fact of Mormonism—it requires a lot of volunteer work from its members. And sometimes people don’t grasp all of the purposes and reasons behind what’s being asked of them. As volunteer leaders, we mostly figure it out in the middle of doing—moments of grace and insight that only come through trial and error—and about the time we really get it, it’s someone else’s turn to learn.
I’ve sat in YW leadership meetings and heard the old wives’ tale (spoken in the hushed and reverent tones reserved for quoting General Authorities) that if the YW activities aren’t fun, the girls won’t come. Newbie YW leaders hear this and make the cognitive leap that non-fun equals inactivity; that’s bad. No YW leader wants to be the one who derailed an entire generation’s eternal progression. Fun equals participation and all things good. Focus on the fun, we think, and salvation will follow.
The irony, of course, is that this logic results in six years of blithely beading lizards, lizards that only decorate someone else’s care packages. Sometimes I think we’ve forgotten why we wanted girls at YW activities in the first place.
Every summer brings girls’ camp, another fantastic opportunity to master wilderness challenges, bolster testimonies, and build friendships. I’ve seen YW campers shoot down white water rapids, hike down Havasupai Falls in 110 degree heat, and rappel down cliffs—knees shaking and fists clenched in triumph at the bottom. I’ve seen them make detergent from scratch, build lean-tos, navigate by starlight, teach first-aid, and tie quilts for homeless shelters.
I’ve also seen YW camps held in somebody’s vacation cabin with catered meals delivered thrice daily. I’ve seen leaders decide a twenty-minute meander with a water bottle and granola bar is the equivalent of a second year’s recommended five-mile hike with a nutritious self-prepared meal.
I get it. It’s a serious pain to set up tents and a bigger one to get them from the Scout Master. It’s also far easier if adults plan, shop, and cook all the meals—and we award ourselves bonus points for doing it without smoky campfires, wonky propane burners, or worrying about ice. Throw in some spiritual thoughts, a couple of crafts, and check, check, check—girls’ camp is done. So easy and fun!
But that’s not the point.
Young women need to do hard things in order to learn that they can. They need experiences that teach them that their service has real value. And that takes time, effort, and a non-checklist mentality from adult leaders. To do less is to underestimate them—and ourselves.
God never said it would be easy, only worth it.
Draped over a bar stool, my daughter told me about her idea, an idea that started with YW selling beaded lizards as a fundraiser and then reinvesting the profits, eventually turning trivial decorations into clean water wells, newborn kits, and school supplies. She’s spooky analytical like that.
But beyond asking why beaded lizards, she didn’t say a word. She’s learned that at YW activities girls are expected to put shoulders to wheels and have fun. Don’t be a know-it-all who sees things differently.
By words and deeds, YW leaders reinforce what they value. Unfortunately, what my daughter is seeing is the path of least resistance, the least challenging and time consuming, is the best. After all, it’s far easier to push a handcart along in a well-established rut than to strike off into uncharted wilderness.
On her way up the stairs to her bedroom she paused. “You know, Mom, when I’m grown up I hope I get to be a YW leader. That way I can make sure we do something real.”
Me, too.

“Echo of Boy” by Darlene Young

James Goldberg — Wed, 27 May 2015 06:01:39 +0000

My son hunches into the storm in his oversized coat
to collect fast offerings, a two-hour route
…..because the other mother’s sons stay in when it’s cold.
…..He is mine.
………..His wrists

out-hang his sleeves. His hair
squirms out of his well-slicked part, and he is mine. He’s out there
…..in the snow and I can’t settle. Thirteen years old; thirteen,
…..the way he slides a little to the right of us on the Sunday pew,
……….like someone has hit “tab” on the keyboard, though still
……….he’ll let me pull him back to drape my arm around
……….those slumping shoulders.
……………Shadow of boy.

It’s snowing and he is fine out there. He’s fine. At home
he sprawls on the couch behind those heavy eyes. Outline
of boy. Echo of boy. I tell it to him straight: “The reward
for showing up,” I say, “is that you’re the first one they call
…..next time. Find a way to be proud of that.” He looks
…..away. Should I apologize for this burden of duty I’ve bred
……….into him, for the fact that from here on out
……….he’ll never be able to leave a ward party
………..without putting away chairs? Welcome
………..to Mormon guilt, my son. Welcome to the wilderness.
Sometimes a suit is a front bumper, silver plating, deadweight. Sometimes it is wings.

Those heavy-lidded eyes. Let there be a man
…..behind there. The still-narrow shoulders, crooked
……….tie. Does he slump to parenthesize the space
……………he’ll leave when he’s gone? Look
………………..forward, son. Look forward,
………………..mother. On the horizon
……………………..in the chalky dusk:
……………………………contrail of boy.

“The Joys of Onsite Apartment Building Management” by William Morris

James Goldberg — Tue, 26 May 2015 06:01:15 +0000

Someone had made a spray paint stain on the second floor landing in the stairwell of Building B, and Maria couldn’t get it out. It was brick red and shaped like a slumping letter ‘M’. Clearly, some idiot had put down two pieces of semi-overlapping newspaper and gone all the way to the edges and accidentally over, staining the concrete floor. She tried a variety of cleansers but only managed to fade it a bit.

She mentioned it to Craig when he got home from a study session.

Does it pose a danger to any of the residents?” he asked.

“No.”

“Will it scare off potential renters?”

“Probably not.”

“Then let it go, Maria. You and I can only do so much.”

“You’re right.” She kissed his cheek. He was in the teeth of his grad program at Irvine and more of the job of managing the apartment complex had been placed on her shoulders. She didn’t mind it. They needed the rent break. Craig was right–she had done as much as she could.

Maria had just finished yelling at a resident on the top floor of Building C for trying to run cornhusks down the garbage disposal when she saw the stain in the stairwell. But, wait? Hadn’t it been in Building B?

Whatever. She didn’t need to deal with it.

She rushed down the stairs and bumped into the sister missionaries loitering on the ground floor, planners out, in deep discussion, clearly facing the eternal dilemma of all missionaries: what to do next.

“Hello, sisters,” she said.

“Sister Hughes,” one of them said. “How are you?”

“Fine. I was just checking on one of the residents. What brings you here?”

“We felt inspired to check on an investigator who hadn’t been contacted for a couple of years.”

“How did things go?”

“She’s not interested in the lessons, but we were able to talk her through a problem she was having at work.”

“That’s great! Well… see you Sunday!” Maria walked away quickly. She was not in the mood to have them over.

At dinner she mentioned the sister missionaries to Craig, also parenthetically noting that the spray paint stain was actually in Building C. As she ticked off her reasons for not inviting them over, Craig slurped ramen noodles, his eyes focused on the wall behind her. She was just about to snap at him when he said, “Are you sure it was Building C?”

“Yes.”

“I could have sworn that I saw it in Building F.” He shrugged. “Anyway,” he said. “The sisters shouldn’t expect an impromptu invitation. You have things to do.”

The following week she ran into Sister Anderson, the Relief Society president, just outside Building F. Maria expressed surprise at seeing her and then inwardly cringed. Would Sister Anderson take it as an accusation that she didn’t minister much to the cluster of inactives who lived in the complex?

“I don’t know,” Sister Anderson said. “I just felt like I should reach out to a friend who I hadn’t seen in awhile–she’s not a member.”

Maria nodded.

“I’m glad I came. It turns out she’s battling cancer, and I’m going to drive her to some of her appointments. Isn’t it funny how the Lord puts us where he needs us?”

Maria agreed and said, “And your friend lives in Building F?”

“No–E.”

A couple of days later, Craig said, “I keep forgetting to tell you. I found the spray paint stain. I was wrong before when I said it was in F. I must have misremembered. I think it’s actually in Building E. I definitely saw it there the other day.”

“Which day?”

“Wednesday.”

That was the day she had run into Sister Anderson.

The next evening Maria was watching television when she had the feeling she should take a walk. That was the last thing she wanted to do, but there was nothing good on anyway so she gave in to the feeling, grabbing her BYU sweatshirt on the way out in case there was a breeze.

As she neared Building D, she felt her feet turn towards it and before she knew it she was standing on the second floor landing looking at the spray paint stain. A weird feeling settled on her. It was like the Spirit but outside the realm of how she thought that it normally worked–an unsettling, raw compulsion instead of a warm nudge.

For all that God had his mysterious ways, she didn’t think a migrating spray paint stain was one of them. But if that wasn’t it, then what was happening?

More out of curiosity than anything, she knocked on the door closest to the stain. No one answered. She knocked again. The pinpoint of light from the peephole dimmed and then went light again. She shrugged and walked away. The sun had dipped below the horizon. She was too lazy to put the sweatshirt on so she clutched it to her chest and wrapped her arms around it.

She got halfway home before she turned around and went back to Building D. The stain was still there. This time she knocked on the other door. It opened. A thin young woman in a white tank top and denim shorts slouched in the doorway. Her blond hair was unwashed and her eyes were rimmed red. “I’ve paid my rent this month,” she said.

“I don’t handle the rent,” Maria was going to say. Instead she said: “Oh, that’s not why I’m here. I was wondering: do you need anything? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Nah, I’m fine.” The woman started to close the door.

“Wait,” Maria said. “Take this.” She thrust the BYU sweatshirt into the woman’s arms.

“Okay,” the woman said. “Thanks.” She closed the door.

Maria turned and glared at the stain. It seemed to lighten a shade under her gaze.

Maria was cold as she walked home. Cold, confused, and oddly joyful.

“Disability, Death, or Other Circumstance,” by Annaliese Lemmon

James Goldberg — Mon, 25 May 2015 06:01:07 +0000

1. My husband is not a cockroach.

If I had woken up next to Kafka’s “monstrous vermin,” I would have run and sprayed an entire can of Raid into the bedroom. As it was, I thought the six foot rabbit crouched under the covers was a very elaborate (it even included nose twitching) joke, even though it wasn’t Easter, April Fools, or Halloween. Nor had David ever done anything remotely similar in our twelve years of marriage. It was only when he didn’t come down for breakfast that I started to worry.

2. The ward members have been very supportive.

Nobody has said that we brought this on ourselves through sinning. The Relief Society has been bringing in meals (is there any problem they don’t solve with food?) and my visiting teachers helped clean up all the droppings (bless their souls). Our home teachers took David in their truck to the doctor, then the veterinarian, and back again. Even with all the tests, we still have no clue what happened.

3. The kids enjoy bunny back rides.

Hyrum begs for a ride at every opportunity. Lydia fashions all sorts of pretend saddles, reins, and collars. When Noah fell off last night though, he wanted nothing to do with bunny kisses to make it better. He just screamed that he wanted daddy back. David then sulked in our room for the rest of the evening.

4. Our yard has never been trimmer.

David hated mowing the lawn before. Now, it’s become part of his daily diet, which really helps with the grocery bill. I just wish he didn’t have to scare off certain dogs that were out on walks. You would think the stupid creatures would pick on something their own size.

I stare at the computer screen for several minutes, but I am still unable to come up with another blessing to add to my list. Finally, I close that document and open up my resume. I tweak the fonts, but it doesn’t change the fact that the space under experience is as blank as blessing #5.

“The Five Year Journal” by Katherine Cowley

James Goldberg — Sat, 23 May 2015 06:11:25 +0000

This journal belongs to Hannah Bolt (Rinehart!)

February 20th
2010: I know you’re supposed to start journals at the beginning of the year, but this was on discount at Deseret Book. Journaling=righteousness points, right? And anyone can write a couple sentences a day.
2011: I’ve written in my journal every day for a year. Wow. Now that I’m on year two, it should be cool to always see what I was doing exactly a year ago. Also, Derek brought me flowers.
2012: Surprise date: bowling, dinner, and a photo scavenger hunt. People keep saying the honeymoon stage ends, but I don’t believe it.
2013: I finally gave in and went to group therapy. Embarrassing amounts of tears. I hated it. But I’ll probably go back.
2014: A doctor’s appointment this morning. Heard the heartbeat. I’m happy…but nervous. Can we handle a baby?

June 8th
2010: Was not excited for the single adult stake activity committee meeting. But I met the nicest guy. And I mean nicest in a good way. We talked for several hours afterwards. (Also, nice looking!)
2011: I finally found the perfect wedding dress. 17 days! Did I really just meet Derek a year ago?
2012: Derek’s always busy these days. I wish work would give him a break. But I went on an awesome girl’s night with former roomies.
2013: Went to the temple this morning—felt peace while there, but it disappeared by the time I got home. Also, I dropped three glasses today. They shattered all over the kitchen floor.
2014: Every time I think I’ve hit the point of complete forgiveness, something sets me off—plunges me back into the former emotions. Today it was a comment in Sunday School.

October 7th
2010: College just wears me out. Especially days like today. Bombed my chemistry test. But Derek gave me chocolate.
2011: Went to a pumpkin patch with my family. My little sister kept telling me to stop making goo-goo eyes at Derek, but I told her I’m married now, so I can make as many goo-goo eyes as I want.
2012: Apparently Derek listened to conference talks. Because he said we had to talk. He has a pornography addiction. All I could say was “We’ll get through this, we’ll get through this.” I should’ve yelled.
2013: Was having a good day, until I saw last year’s entry and realized what day it is.
2014: Lots of contractions now. I can’t tell, based on books and blogs, if these are real contractions or Braxton-Hicks. Is there actually a difference between the two?

December 13th
2010: Found the perfect present for Derek. I think it says, “I’m serious about us.” But hopefully it doesn’t look like I spent too much money.
2011: To celebrate us, we started a new family tradition—we bought a real, fresh Christmas tree! We even made popcorn garlands to hang on it.
2012: I thought the holiday season would distract me. No such luck. Borrowing my parents’ old fake Xmas tree this year. It’s missing so many branches.
2013: Derek took me on a surprise date tonight. Nothing particularly noteworthy, but it made me feel young again. Like when we were first dating.
2014: We went as a family to the temple lights. Baby Will’s first time. Got a family photo in front of my favorite part of temple square–the Christus statue. Life isn’t perfect, but I wouldn’t change it.

“Faded Garden” by Emily Harris Adams

James Goldberg — Fri, 22 May 2015 06:01:14 +0000

I don’t remember the time
of nameless animals.
The lions have been lions too long
for even Adam to think of them as anything else.
My calloused feet have forgotten the luxury
of a thornless silt-soft ground.

Grandchildren often ask me to describe the face of the serpent-man
who came to tempt me,
but the details of his jawline, eye color,
and skin-tone have all rubbed free of my mind—
scrubbed away by a thousand other faces I’ve seen since.

Others beg for word-painted pictures of the ominous tree,
But I can only say I can’t recall anything like it
before or since. Each grove lacks a certain half-remembered scent.

I don’t remember much of Eden. My family must prompt me
in the particulars of my own story. My garden has, mercifully,
faded into a myth
of soft-gummed carnivores
and self-watered wheat.

All the details, all the colors, all the sharp edges are gone.
But the fruit?
I can still taste it.