God is Good to the Johnsons

“We have nothing in common” is a phrase that perplexes me, And leaves me to wonder In a confuzzled reverie How two humans, with paths On earth’s teaching trails Can’t find one commonality That connects their life tale.

We may or may not have just finished tonight the extended version of the third Lord of the Rings movie, It was probably my eighth time. I love horses and stories well told So it shouldn’t come as a surprise, really, how much I love the films... But sometimes I feel sheepish when I share such With unsuspecting conversations Because I sometimes get this look of—No way, you? And how am I to respond? How can I point out to them the awesome?! Character development with depth and breadth and history (they’re not boring stretches of talking, I promise), A perfect blend of love stories and actions (what woman can’t swoon over Aragorn and Arwen’s loyalty to one another, and what man can’t appreciate  the battles?) And a portrayal of a nation so intertwined with equine life that the flag of their people  bears a horse. It’s beautiful. So, there you have it, I’ve confessed. I’m a LOTR fan.

Sometimes a good day is getting the competitive job, finding a deluxe living arrangement for a killer price, or taking a sweet vacation. But most of my good days include the simple joys of life. A good day is waking up without worrying where my next meal will come from, Or the meal after that. A good day is bathing in a warm shower in a home that doesn’t drop below 67 degrees Fahrenheit. A good day includes an attentive phone call from my husband And a string of slobbery open-mouth kisses from my toddler. A good day is a text conversation and/or video chat with my parents. A good day includes quilting or brunching or walking or Marco-polo-ing with dear friends. A good day is energy and health enough to care for myself and my little one, And legs that can walk, And lungs that breathe, And eyes that see the glorious world around me. So really, although there’s disappointment and drain and pain and humdrum Of course I can’t deny That most days Are good ones. Thank you, G...

Guys, I have a problem.  Sometimes I text people back really, really late. And sometimes I forget to text people back at all. I don't intentionally slough off my duty to respond, and I certainly don't intend the person I'm communicating with to feel forgotten or intentionally ignored. I simply, well, lose myself in the moments of day-to-day life (feeding my son breakfast, taking a much needed nap in the afternoon, piecing together a quilt, enjoying a conversation with my husband, taking a long walk) and texting falls by the wayside.  If a voice message is left after a missed phonecall, I always call them back. But texting is harder. So for more than anyone, if you're someone who has texted me and repeatedly gotten a delayed response or none at all, please know that it's not personal. I care about you. I'm just in the middle of living!  But next time, don't be afraid to call me instead.  <3

What’s  truly amazing about language is that two people who have spoken English all their life can have a conversation... and completely misunderstand one another. There are many reasons for this, but I’m going to explore just one aspect I’ve observed in recent years: little words from subcultures. While living in Gig Harbor, Washington in the summer of 2013, I had occasion to interact with a lot of Washingtonian families. One term of endearment I heard in many households was “sweets.” I’d never heard it used as a loving pet name previously, but now I’ve adopted it into my own vernacular. I grew up calling a religious building a “church.” My husband’s family calls it a “ward.” My friend Kelsey and her family call teeny tiny things “smallish bear.” And the true kings of making up words and adopting them into their own subculture, my brothers say to each other, “Shummanatinka—oh—ah—chi.” I’ll be honest, I’ve yet to learn what that word means in its entirety. They use it in m...

“You married the guy you married because you liked him. Don’t try to change who he is.” -Rebecca Stay I heard these words today, babe And they’re truer than true. I don’t want you to love pride and prejudice, not really, that’s my job. One of us has to be the hilarious one in the relationship to help break the ice when we meet new people, and that’s your job. Nothing in this house would get repaired so neatly without you. Who else would eat my food, all of it, experiment recipe after experiment recipe, with unfailingly brave taste buds and a gumption to go back for more, even when it’s subpar? That’s only a pinch of the smattering of all the things that are you, But don’t change (except in the self-improvement ways that YOU choose... but that sounds far less poetic and side-note-y so I had to put it in parentheses for it to belong in this poem) Don’t change Don’t change DONT CHANGE Be you Cuz that’s who I like in the first place.

Grandma, I never met you, because you’re four greats away, But someday I hope to, in the hereafter. You delivered dozens of babies After finding Christ’s church, crossing the Atlantic, and then crossing the plains And then Brigham Young asked you to be a midwife. I think of all the impossible you made possible through faith and grit, And I pray I can become a fraction Of the woman you are When the tasks ahead of me seem to grand to undertake.