God is Good to the Johnsons

Hey, Fam.  For those who don't know, I hit the big three–oh about two weeks back.  Every adult that's older than me, except for two people, have been telling me that thirty is nothing to worry about. "Wait 'til forty," said my neighbor. "Wait 'til fifty. That's when you realize you might not live to be double your age," said my grandma. "Sixty is when you'll start to feel it, when the gray hairs go crazy" said the lady at Mrs. Cavanaugh's. "Eighty is when you're really, really old," said my grandpa. "You'll feel it."  Interestingly, "seventy" was left out of the conversation. I wonder what that means.  Now, I don't want to discount the experiences of all those people. Surely those forty fifty sixty eighty birthdays were pretty tough on them. But I honestly  have worried about turning thirty. When I was a kid, I dreamed about all the things I'd do when I was twenty–something. But I ne

Where in the world is Carmen SanDiego? Ahem, I mean Mikayla Johnson? (a wink to any of you 90s kids that remember that show. To be honest, I don't remember more than the show's jingle, but, still . . . good times) So, where can you find my writing?  Some of you beloved readers have found my writing through this blog; you're die–hards that have been around as long as six years. Bless you. You probably noticed that I did a dive-bomb off the blogosphere from 2019 til 2022. Now, contrary to popular belief, I did not stop writing. Rather, I went back to writing novels.  That's where more of you beloved readers found me. Gratefully, I have a wealth of good people who volunteered to beta read my novels and have been coaching and cheerleading me along in that journey. Bless you, too.  Still, more of you have found my writing through social media platforms, a second website ( mikjohnsonwrites.com ), my ENGL 420 class, and beyond. And, of course, I could never forget the handfu

Hey, friends. Some of you might remember the "I'm a Mormon" videos of yesteryear. If you need a refresher, here's one of my favorites . Recently, my husband and I have been volunteering as "Digital Media Missionaries" in our church congregation (in my church, congregation = "ward"). Basically, my job is to talk about Jesus and connect people with my church via social media. Our higher–up church leaders (called "stake" leaders) encouraged us missionaries to make our own videos, similar to the "I'm a Mormon" videos, about our belief in Jesus Christ. While I wrote my script last month, every time I think about getting in front of a camera, I start feeling queasy. So while I work my way up to video status, I wanted to share my written version of my belief in Jesus Christ here. Enjoy. THE SCRIPT: Hey, I'm Mikayla. I am OBSESSED with stories. From the time I learned my letters, I never stopped reading. And from the time I coul

A neighbor in her mid-thirties. A woman in her seventies. Their single commonality? They both asked me: Where's number three? I have a son, his name Charlie And then McKay, he's not quite three In my heart, both fit perfectly Yet others ask: Where's number three? Perhaps it's that I miscarried, My spouse's infidelity, The ache of infertility, A battle raging mentally, Illness on a crippling spree, Our family is complete, maybe. The reason's one or more of these, Yet you dare ask: Where's number three? In this question, running free Are judgements, jeering icily "You're not enough, Mik, can't you see? Buck up and give us number three!" I used to flounder, squirm, agree Or curl up small, cry, and plead. With time, I've seen things differently. I won't explain for number three. The questions of maternity Are just between my spouse and me And Parents, guiding Heavenly So please don't ask: Where's number three? Artwork Credit: Be

"Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God." —Matthew 5:9 A few weeks back, my dear friend Kylie and I met up for lunch, our young kids in tow. When I arrived, Kylie was already at the counter placing an order. A few paces back in line, I held Bean* and Peanut's* hands in either of mine while I studied the menu, scanning through Nutella-stuffed crepes and cheddar-potato chowders.  The Tuscan sandwich is the one that caught my eye; an ensemble of grilled chicken breast, melty cheese, and fresh roma tomatoes all cradled between two sourdough slices. Yes, please. After placing my order, the kids and I scooted over to the table Kylie had reserved, settled into our seats, and placed our order number at the edge of the table. The kids babbled while Kylie and I started catching up. A minute or two later, a server brought out two plates of chicken fingers—for Kylie's kids—as well as my Tuscan sandwich. To my delight, a side of rosemary fries fi

“And blessed are all they who do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled with the Holy Ghost.” –3 Nephi 12:6 Hey, Friends. You’ve probably noticed I’ve been gone a while. Some of you have probably wondered if I was ever coming back. I’ll explain all that in a minute. But first, a story. Last Sunday, I became acquainted with a lovely young woman who is a senior in high school. As we chatted together, the two of us exchanged social media information. When I told her that my blog and instagram are called @godisgoodtothejohnsons, she exclaimed, “No way! That’s my phrase, ‘God is good.’ I say it all the time.” I grinned at her. “I say it all the time too! That’s a neat thing we have in common.” Her smile wavered a bit when next, she added, “I used to have a bumper sticker on my car that said ‘God is Good’ on it. But some kids at school ripped it off. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Yeah,” she said. “I got a lot of crap about it. But that’s okay. I’m gonna buy another one.”