Dear Reader,
It is inevitable, I suppose, that a person between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five will be ultimately confronted with the challenges that accompany the frantic and fluid lifestyle that persons in this age group tend to lead. I wonder if it's harder for those of us who are less fluid than others.
I've lived in the same apartment for three years, my fourth year started at the beginning of August. I like my complex, the people, the location, and I have a pretty sweet setup as far as rent is concerned. This means, though, that since my situation is so extraordinarily unusual, I am constantly subjected to watching people leave me and move on with their lives. This means that I am also constantly subjected to people who accuse me of living in a rut.
The truth is that as far as ruts are concerned, to a college student they are generally unsustainable for a period of four months. College ruts change with every semester, every new job, and every new friend, and we have a lot of those. Even a person like me can't really have a rut when my entire complex changes from one month to the next. My friends graduate, go on missions, get married, or transfer. I haven't even had a roommate for two years in a row (HermanaMayor is beating the competition by at least three months, though). So since I am forced to constantly make new friends and adjust to new circumstances, I just don't see how anyone could accuse me of living in a rut.
I suppose, though, that I am in a relative rut. After all, I have been sleeping in the same bed for three years, and I probably could get home from campus blindfolded. I just don't see why there's a downside to that. I don't like having to move, or paying more for rent, or dealing with forwarding mail, and there are a thousand tedious things that I completely avoid by staying in the same place, a place that is really only the same in regards to its physical location. But yeah, I guess I don't pack up and leave every nine months or so, so here I am, completely in a rut and miserable with my life. Or something.
It's hard to see people leave while I stay in the same place, and it's hard to have to continue to make new friends in old apartments, but I'm here because I choose to be, and I believe that the greatest joys in life come from making good choices. Still, it's difficult to be here and not feel like I'm being abandoned every December, April, and August while people move on to pursue their own fluid lives, but I suppose that's just the nature of being in the environment I am in. I guess it's the same for people in the military and what not. You don't ever really get used to it, though.
Regards, best wishes, and new frontiers,
-Cecily Jane
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Sister Moment #2: "Will you stop THROWING things?"
My Dear Reader,
As the middle sister sandwiched between two very different women (namely, HermanaMayor and PetiteSoeur), I feel this particular situation lends some experiences on my part that you, Gentle Reader, may not share. Thus, I would like to periodically relate certain anecdotes of a hilarious or otherwise meaningful nature in order to communicate the nuances of my rather unique situation. I will begin with a story involving myself and PetiteSoeur:
A few months ago, Padre called us sisters up and surprised us by telling us that he had booked a cruise to the Caribbean for the whole family. We're not a family that can afford to go on expensive trips all the time, but this year my parents are going to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary, and that added to the fact that Padre is afraid that one of the girls will get married at any moment meant that they wanted to go on a cruise and they wanted to take us. Anyway, PetiteSoeur and I ended up sharing a cabin together, which was just fine by the two of us. We get along fairly well, which I believe is mainly due to the fact that we've fought so much in the past that contention has become tiresome. Once our hair-pulling days were firmly in the past, we discovered that PetiteSoeur was actually interested in a lot of the things I was and not just copying me in an attempt at irritation, as I had originally suspected. So in the same room we were placed, grateful that we didn't have to share a room with the boys, because despite all their redeeming qualities, they still smell awful.
In fact, sharing a room is something that PetiteSoeur and I have done for the majority of our lives, and that means that we know each other well enough to know how to respond to the quirks of the other. For example, PetiteSoeur talks in her sleep. Generally it's a kind of unintelligible mumbling, but with a little luck and the right stimuli, she can be the unconscious life of the party. I, on the other hand, don't talk in my sleep as much as I talk in the stage directly in between sleeping and being awake. And in contrast to PetiteSoeur's grumbles, I generally shout, and by that I mean yell nonsense phrases heavily influenced by whatever I was dreaming, whatever is happening in the land of the awake, and the confusion induced by an infusion of the two. My shouting generally comes in the form of a demand regarding random subject such as grammar, hygiene, or pancakes, so you can imagine the kind of ruckus it creates by the time I know what I'm doing.
So on the first morning at sea, PetiteSoeur and I arranged that she get up, take a shower, and then wake me up so that I can shower. If I hurry, we end up getting ready at about the same time, so it's a good system. This morning, however, I hadn't gotten a lot of sleep and was suffering from jet lag, which meant I was in the optimal conditions for Cecily's Half-Awake Shouting Syndrome, CHASS for short. On this particular morning, we experienced the roughest part of the trip, and as the boat rocked back and forth, I heard some loud noises that grabbed me from dreamland the way a teenage boy grabs the handle of the refrigerator. It was a very irritating experience, since I was not yet used to waking up in the place that I was, much less waking up as I was swaying from side to side.
The noises were a loud, sudden kind of thump, and I'm not exactly sure what I had been dreaming at the time, but my guess is that it led me to believe PetiteSoeur was to blame, and in my less-than-conscious state I thought that she was probably throwing something at a wall. Now, I was so tired at the time that I completely ignored the fact that I can't even recall the last time I saw her throw anything.
Anyway, I tried to be as patient as possible, especially since the cabin walls were fairly thin and I didn't want to be imposing on others. So I tried really hard, and managed to get a little closer to going back to sleep when the thumping got louder. I just couldn't stand it anymore.
"Will you stop THROWING things?" I finally said.
And then I defiantly went back to sleep for good. I'll show her who's waking me up.
Later, when I was good and ready, I woke up for the day and found out that the thumping had not gone away, and I was still a bit irritated.
"Hey, will you PLEASE stop throwing things?" I said again. By this time I realized that my patient efforts to continue sleeping were completely useless, and I gave up trying. I opened my eyes to find PetitieSoeur standing a couple of feet away from me, brushing her hair and wearing an expression that was a strange mix of curiosity and horror.
"Why were you throwing things?" I asked, "I was sleeping, and everyone around us probably was, too."
"I wasn't throwing things, Cec," she said, pointing to the dresser drawers a couple of feet from my head. I turned to see them violently opening and closing all on their own, victims of the turning and tossing of the sea.
"Oh." I felt pretty stupid by this point.
"Yeah," she said, "You've been waking up every five to ten minutes for the past hour and a half screaming at me. I kept telling you that I wasn't throwing anything, but you wouldn't listen."
And then I felt really, really stupid. CHASS strikes again, I guess.
Regards, best wishes, and restraint,
-Cecily Jane
As the middle sister sandwiched between two very different women (namely, HermanaMayor and PetiteSoeur), I feel this particular situation lends some experiences on my part that you, Gentle Reader, may not share. Thus, I would like to periodically relate certain anecdotes of a hilarious or otherwise meaningful nature in order to communicate the nuances of my rather unique situation. I will begin with a story involving myself and PetiteSoeur:
A few months ago, Padre called us sisters up and surprised us by telling us that he had booked a cruise to the Caribbean for the whole family. We're not a family that can afford to go on expensive trips all the time, but this year my parents are going to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary, and that added to the fact that Padre is afraid that one of the girls will get married at any moment meant that they wanted to go on a cruise and they wanted to take us. Anyway, PetiteSoeur and I ended up sharing a cabin together, which was just fine by the two of us. We get along fairly well, which I believe is mainly due to the fact that we've fought so much in the past that contention has become tiresome. Once our hair-pulling days were firmly in the past, we discovered that PetiteSoeur was actually interested in a lot of the things I was and not just copying me in an attempt at irritation, as I had originally suspected. So in the same room we were placed, grateful that we didn't have to share a room with the boys, because despite all their redeeming qualities, they still smell awful.
In fact, sharing a room is something that PetiteSoeur and I have done for the majority of our lives, and that means that we know each other well enough to know how to respond to the quirks of the other. For example, PetiteSoeur talks in her sleep. Generally it's a kind of unintelligible mumbling, but with a little luck and the right stimuli, she can be the unconscious life of the party. I, on the other hand, don't talk in my sleep as much as I talk in the stage directly in between sleeping and being awake. And in contrast to PetiteSoeur's grumbles, I generally shout, and by that I mean yell nonsense phrases heavily influenced by whatever I was dreaming, whatever is happening in the land of the awake, and the confusion induced by an infusion of the two. My shouting generally comes in the form of a demand regarding random subject such as grammar, hygiene, or pancakes, so you can imagine the kind of ruckus it creates by the time I know what I'm doing.
So on the first morning at sea, PetiteSoeur and I arranged that she get up, take a shower, and then wake me up so that I can shower. If I hurry, we end up getting ready at about the same time, so it's a good system. This morning, however, I hadn't gotten a lot of sleep and was suffering from jet lag, which meant I was in the optimal conditions for Cecily's Half-Awake Shouting Syndrome, CHASS for short. On this particular morning, we experienced the roughest part of the trip, and as the boat rocked back and forth, I heard some loud noises that grabbed me from dreamland the way a teenage boy grabs the handle of the refrigerator. It was a very irritating experience, since I was not yet used to waking up in the place that I was, much less waking up as I was swaying from side to side.
The noises were a loud, sudden kind of thump, and I'm not exactly sure what I had been dreaming at the time, but my guess is that it led me to believe PetiteSoeur was to blame, and in my less-than-conscious state I thought that she was probably throwing something at a wall. Now, I was so tired at the time that I completely ignored the fact that I can't even recall the last time I saw her throw anything.
Anyway, I tried to be as patient as possible, especially since the cabin walls were fairly thin and I didn't want to be imposing on others. So I tried really hard, and managed to get a little closer to going back to sleep when the thumping got louder. I just couldn't stand it anymore.
"Will you stop THROWING things?" I finally said.
And then I defiantly went back to sleep for good. I'll show her who's waking me up.
Later, when I was good and ready, I woke up for the day and found out that the thumping had not gone away, and I was still a bit irritated.
"Hey, will you PLEASE stop throwing things?" I said again. By this time I realized that my patient efforts to continue sleeping were completely useless, and I gave up trying. I opened my eyes to find PetitieSoeur standing a couple of feet away from me, brushing her hair and wearing an expression that was a strange mix of curiosity and horror.
"Why were you throwing things?" I asked, "I was sleeping, and everyone around us probably was, too."
"I wasn't throwing things, Cec," she said, pointing to the dresser drawers a couple of feet from my head. I turned to see them violently opening and closing all on their own, victims of the turning and tossing of the sea.
"Oh." I felt pretty stupid by this point.
"Yeah," she said, "You've been waking up every five to ten minutes for the past hour and a half screaming at me. I kept telling you that I wasn't throwing anything, but you wouldn't listen."
And then I felt really, really stupid. CHASS strikes again, I guess.
Regards, best wishes, and restraint,
-Cecily Jane
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
The Dangers of Fan Fiction
Dear Reader,
A long time ago, just before I started my sophomore year in high school, I watched the film version of the musical Cats by (now Sir) Andrew Lloyd Webber for the first time. Afterwards, I grabbed PetiteSeour and we "discovered" Cats together in the same way Columbus "discovered" America. We've always been big fans, but I'm the kind of fan who keeps things to herself unless the situation deems it appropriate, and PetiteSeour is the kind who likes to rub it in your face like a mother with a clean cloth and a dirty child. So of course it was Petite Seour who was invited to San Francisco and see the Broadway tour, not me. It wasn't the first or last time someone has done that to me, and yes, I'm still bitter about it.
Anyway, as I found myself an instant Cats fan, I naturally wanted to use my new-fangled modem to make sure I wasn't the only one. And I wasn't, not by a long shot. There are people who dress up on a semi-regular basis, there are some who get together in large groups to watch the movie, and there are some who feel that they need to add to the universe by writing their own stories. In geekdom, we call this fan fiction, or fan fic for short.
I quickly learned that each piece of Cats fan fiction must contain a requisite amount of cheese mixed with a certain portion of unbelievably. The character Mistoffles (who is referred to as Misto in fan fics) is in love with the character Victoria (called Vickie or some such nonsense) and his father happens to be Munkustrap (called Munkie?). Munkustrap's mother is Grizzabella (Grizzie), whose father is Old Deuteronomy (Old D), whose uncle is Misto, so somehow poor Misto ended up being his own great, great, great uncle. It's like each character is required to be in love with somebody, related to somebody, and have a secret ambition to become somebody. The biggest problem with this, though, is that there really isn't enough material within Cats universe that can be used to create more universe. I mean, I've been a fan for seven years and I only figured out the plot last month. I called PetiteSeour about it and we discussed the matter over hot chocolate and Pirrouettes. If an analysis-hungry English major like myself can't even figure out a plot line, there's probably not that much for me to work with. And considering that Cats is really just a bunch of T. S. Elliot poems strung together and put to music, it's incredible that they were able to put a plot together in the first place.
And yet, Cats is continuing to become the basis fan fiction, and it's not alone. I've found stuff for Beauty and the Beast. Beauty and the Beast! As if the Disney sequel, prequel, and what-happened-between-scene-34-and-scene-35 movies weren't enough to leave a permanent stain on the cultural cloak of humanity. Apparently not even this has had the power to dissuade those eager to put their own personal stamp on their favorite piece of musical theater.
Of course, musicals aren't the only art form that attracts the would-be fan writer, in fact, fan fics are pretty much the only thing that Star Trek and musicals have in common. In the realm of science fiction there is more of a writing frenzy, enough to give the musical fans a run for their money. Of course, when it comes to a series that has produced an assortment of episodes, there is an actual universe to play in. That means it's actually possible to create a good story, right? Unfortunately, I have yet to find one that is truly worth the time it takes to read. It probably has to do with the fact that most of these authors are under the age of sixteen. And then, of course, there aren't any editors or publishers to tell them where the sap is.
But I think that the most interesting thing about the whole fan fiction phenomenon is that people actually have the passion and conviction to write it in the first place. What sort of a person tries to get the last word on what happened to Munkustrap or Belle? Perhaps it is someone who is so enraptured, so thrilled by what they see on the stage or the screen that they desperately long to be a part of it in some way or another, and so bold that they are willing to put their attempts in print for an unlimited amount of strangers to look at. It's like their affinity for this fiction is about to burst inside of them, and writing is the only way to let it out, no matter how poorly constructed the story might be. That must speak volumes for the quality of the object of their fandom, don't you think?
And the there's always the chance that one of those kids are the next J. K. Rowling or Stephanie Meyer, just cutting their teeth on the genre before they set off in an adventure. Maybe someday I'll come across that kid's work. In the meantime, I've got my own characters to put on pages, or otherwise they'll never leave me alone.
Regards, best wishes, and a healthy dose of reality,
-Cecily Jane
A long time ago, just before I started my sophomore year in high school, I watched the film version of the musical Cats by (now Sir) Andrew Lloyd Webber for the first time. Afterwards, I grabbed PetiteSeour and we "discovered" Cats together in the same way Columbus "discovered" America. We've always been big fans, but I'm the kind of fan who keeps things to herself unless the situation deems it appropriate, and PetiteSeour is the kind who likes to rub it in your face like a mother with a clean cloth and a dirty child. So of course it was Petite Seour who was invited to San Francisco and see the Broadway tour, not me. It wasn't the first or last time someone has done that to me, and yes, I'm still bitter about it.
Anyway, as I found myself an instant Cats fan, I naturally wanted to use my new-fangled modem to make sure I wasn't the only one. And I wasn't, not by a long shot. There are people who dress up on a semi-regular basis, there are some who get together in large groups to watch the movie, and there are some who feel that they need to add to the universe by writing their own stories. In geekdom, we call this fan fiction, or fan fic for short.
I quickly learned that each piece of Cats fan fiction must contain a requisite amount of cheese mixed with a certain portion of unbelievably. The character Mistoffles (who is referred to as Misto in fan fics) is in love with the character Victoria (called Vickie or some such nonsense) and his father happens to be Munkustrap (called Munkie?). Munkustrap's mother is Grizzabella (Grizzie), whose father is Old Deuteronomy (Old D), whose uncle is Misto, so somehow poor Misto ended up being his own great, great, great uncle. It's like each character is required to be in love with somebody, related to somebody, and have a secret ambition to become somebody. The biggest problem with this, though, is that there really isn't enough material within Cats universe that can be used to create more universe. I mean, I've been a fan for seven years and I only figured out the plot last month. I called PetiteSeour about it and we discussed the matter over hot chocolate and Pirrouettes. If an analysis-hungry English major like myself can't even figure out a plot line, there's probably not that much for me to work with. And considering that Cats is really just a bunch of T. S. Elliot poems strung together and put to music, it's incredible that they were able to put a plot together in the first place.
And yet, Cats is continuing to become the basis fan fiction, and it's not alone. I've found stuff for Beauty and the Beast. Beauty and the Beast! As if the Disney sequel, prequel, and what-happened-between-scene-34-and-scene-35 movies weren't enough to leave a permanent stain on the cultural cloak of humanity. Apparently not even this has had the power to dissuade those eager to put their own personal stamp on their favorite piece of musical theater.
Of course, musicals aren't the only art form that attracts the would-be fan writer, in fact, fan fics are pretty much the only thing that Star Trek and musicals have in common. In the realm of science fiction there is more of a writing frenzy, enough to give the musical fans a run for their money. Of course, when it comes to a series that has produced an assortment of episodes, there is an actual universe to play in. That means it's actually possible to create a good story, right? Unfortunately, I have yet to find one that is truly worth the time it takes to read. It probably has to do with the fact that most of these authors are under the age of sixteen. And then, of course, there aren't any editors or publishers to tell them where the sap is.
But I think that the most interesting thing about the whole fan fiction phenomenon is that people actually have the passion and conviction to write it in the first place. What sort of a person tries to get the last word on what happened to Munkustrap or Belle? Perhaps it is someone who is so enraptured, so thrilled by what they see on the stage or the screen that they desperately long to be a part of it in some way or another, and so bold that they are willing to put their attempts in print for an unlimited amount of strangers to look at. It's like their affinity for this fiction is about to burst inside of them, and writing is the only way to let it out, no matter how poorly constructed the story might be. That must speak volumes for the quality of the object of their fandom, don't you think?
And the there's always the chance that one of those kids are the next J. K. Rowling or Stephanie Meyer, just cutting their teeth on the genre before they set off in an adventure. Maybe someday I'll come across that kid's work. In the meantime, I've got my own characters to put on pages, or otherwise they'll never leave me alone.
Regards, best wishes, and a healthy dose of reality,
-Cecily Jane
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Madre vs. the Cool Cage
Dear Reader,
My Madre is not your average woman. She has been called a woman without inhibitions, and the description fits her well. Sometimes she just does things that you could only dream of doing, like that one time she called my junior high school janitor to repentance (he deserved it). Her lack of inhibitions has led her to have certain views on life, which has led to her views on raising children, which has led to her constant urging for us to get out of the "cool cage."
Now, the cool cage is a philosophical concept developed exclusively by Madre herself. The best way to explain it is by asking you to imagine a cage filled with trapped animals. Now, since this is a metaphor, the bars on the cage aren't made out of iron or steel, but rather they are made out of the fear of being uncool. Thus, this cage is unique due to the fact that all of its inhabitants are held captive by choice. The idea is that once you decide to be part of the social mainstream you are required to make certain limiting choices. No more Bach, no more Bradbury; like any prison your food, clothing, and daily activities have been pre-chosen and deviation is punishable.
When I was growing up, Madre was always eager keep her children safely outside of the cool cage's grasp, and warned us constantly about things that she felt would lead us to its captivity. Whenever we worried about doing certain things in order to be accepted into any sort of group, she warned us that the cool cage was near and ready to take prisoners. As a child I often reacted to her warnings with rolling eyes and shrugging shoulders, but it wasn't until recently that I truly realized how much Madre and her ideas about conforming to "cool" has changed the course of my life.
First of all, this gave me the unique experience of having a mother that never criticized the more eccentric ideas and resolutions that I have come up with over the years. When I told her that I was against ear piercings she compiled and presented to me a list of famous un-pierced women. When I continued to watch Star Trek long after the it stopped being a family ritual, she continued to encourage me to have the courage to enjoy the things that I liked. It was only when she my choices as wrong or limiting that she ever opposed, and this made it easier to pursue my interests outside of the home and eventually be the person that I have become.
Secondly, as a Mormon, it was inevitable that I would have to face certain challenges that severely tested my ability to be true to myself and my own sense of right and wrong. Outside of predominantly Mormon communities, being of a faith such as mine is a guarantee that I will never be truly accepted or understood by the majority of people that I meet. There have been many times that I have had to choose between my faith in Christ and His teachings and the friendships of my peers, and even more when my choices regarding worship has stained my reputation and coolness. But armed with the knowledge that my actions matter and that my choices are only mine to make, I was able to truly exercise my freedom to worship completely untainted by the inevitable social repercussions.
So maybe I was a geek in high school, and maybe I made my life a lot harder by being an individual instead of acquiescing to the wishes of the masses, but as I stand outside of the cool cage as the master of my own self, I believe that I know what freedom really means.
Thanks, Madre.
Best wishes, regards, and courage,
-Cecily Jane
My Madre is not your average woman. She has been called a woman without inhibitions, and the description fits her well. Sometimes she just does things that you could only dream of doing, like that one time she called my junior high school janitor to repentance (he deserved it). Her lack of inhibitions has led her to have certain views on life, which has led to her views on raising children, which has led to her constant urging for us to get out of the "cool cage."
Now, the cool cage is a philosophical concept developed exclusively by Madre herself. The best way to explain it is by asking you to imagine a cage filled with trapped animals. Now, since this is a metaphor, the bars on the cage aren't made out of iron or steel, but rather they are made out of the fear of being uncool. Thus, this cage is unique due to the fact that all of its inhabitants are held captive by choice. The idea is that once you decide to be part of the social mainstream you are required to make certain limiting choices. No more Bach, no more Bradbury; like any prison your food, clothing, and daily activities have been pre-chosen and deviation is punishable.
When I was growing up, Madre was always eager keep her children safely outside of the cool cage's grasp, and warned us constantly about things that she felt would lead us to its captivity. Whenever we worried about doing certain things in order to be accepted into any sort of group, she warned us that the cool cage was near and ready to take prisoners. As a child I often reacted to her warnings with rolling eyes and shrugging shoulders, but it wasn't until recently that I truly realized how much Madre and her ideas about conforming to "cool" has changed the course of my life.
First of all, this gave me the unique experience of having a mother that never criticized the more eccentric ideas and resolutions that I have come up with over the years. When I told her that I was against ear piercings she compiled and presented to me a list of famous un-pierced women. When I continued to watch Star Trek long after the it stopped being a family ritual, she continued to encourage me to have the courage to enjoy the things that I liked. It was only when she my choices as wrong or limiting that she ever opposed, and this made it easier to pursue my interests outside of the home and eventually be the person that I have become.
Secondly, as a Mormon, it was inevitable that I would have to face certain challenges that severely tested my ability to be true to myself and my own sense of right and wrong. Outside of predominantly Mormon communities, being of a faith such as mine is a guarantee that I will never be truly accepted or understood by the majority of people that I meet. There have been many times that I have had to choose between my faith in Christ and His teachings and the friendships of my peers, and even more when my choices regarding worship has stained my reputation and coolness. But armed with the knowledge that my actions matter and that my choices are only mine to make, I was able to truly exercise my freedom to worship completely untainted by the inevitable social repercussions.
So maybe I was a geek in high school, and maybe I made my life a lot harder by being an individual instead of acquiescing to the wishes of the masses, but as I stand outside of the cool cage as the master of my own self, I believe that I know what freedom really means.
Thanks, Madre.
Best wishes, regards, and courage,
-Cecily Jane
Thursday, August 16, 2007
I'll Say it Again: Mormon = Christian
Dear Reader,
You may or may not be aware of the controversy that continually hurts and confuses Mormons, but every Mormon who has ever ventured outside of Utah has, the controversy being whether or not Mormons are Christians. Well, we are. I believe the problem arises from the fact that most people don't know very much about us. Don't blame us for the misconception, though; we do everything in our power to let people know what we stand for. We even go door to door. It just seems like there are certain people who are determined to remain ignorant, and it feels like those people are the majority of the world. While these young men and women in business attire and name tags are often the best resource for questions about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I might as well enlighten you while you're here.
First of all, Mormons are often dumbfounded that people think we don't believe in Christ when the name of the Church is a testimony that Christ is the head of it. It is the church of Jesus Christ, plain and simple. All the latter-day saint part really means is that we believe we are in the last days, which is a completely separate issue. We are called the Mormons because we believe The Book of Mormon to be scripture, and while I don't necessarily object to being described as a "Mormon" (after all, the name of the church is pretty long), it can be very misleading. I'll get to that issue in another post.
Speaking of The Book of Mormon, my second point is that the central message of this book is that Christ is the Son of God and the Redeemer of mankind. If you don't believe me, Gentle Reader, encourage you read it for yourself. You can get a free copy at Mormon.org or read it free online here. Why not go to the source? The purpose of The Book of Mormon is to back up The Bible's witness of Christ's divinity and doctrine. Which leads me to point number three:
We believe The Bible to be the word of God, period. The average Mormon may not be as well versed in The Bible as members of other Christian sects, but we also have a lot more ground to cover since we believe that God continues to give revelation to men, which is again another issue. We believe in it all, from Adam to Abraham to Moses and the Messiah. We worry about the veracity of its various translations, but it is holy scripture to us, nonetheless.
My fourth point is that we constantly speak of Christ and His role as our Savior and actively seek his salvation in our daily lives. As I said before, if you don't believe me I encourage you to go to the source. Try attending a church meeting, bring a notepad, and make a tally of every time you hear someone talk about Christ. Due to the nature of our meetings, the number changes, but while it is easy for a person to go through the entire meeting without hearing the name of Joseph Smith, we pray in the name of Christ, speak in the name of Christ, and take upon ourselves His name and His commandments. If you would go to one of these meetings, Gentle Reader, you could see for yourself how we worship the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and the Christ of Peter, James, and John.
Lastly, while we honor Joseph Smith as a prophet, seer, and revelator, his glory stems from his ability to bring people to Christ. Bringing people to Christ is what a prophet does. We obey prophets because they bear the word of God, and as servants of the Almighty, they constantly bear witness of the divine mission of the Son of God. I invite you to look it up and see for yourself. In conclusion, we, the Mormons, believe that Jesus Christ is our Savior and strive to live by his words. As it says in The Book of Mormon, Second Nephi, chapter 25, verse 26: "And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins."
Regards, best wishes, and faith,
-Cecily Jane
P.S. I am aware that there are many arguments against the Church among anti-Mormons and other groups; my intention here is to present my own arguments for Christianity in Mormonism instead of presenting rebuttals for the people previously mentioned. This entry is more of a basic overview of my main thought on the subject.
You may or may not be aware of the controversy that continually hurts and confuses Mormons, but every Mormon who has ever ventured outside of Utah has, the controversy being whether or not Mormons are Christians. Well, we are. I believe the problem arises from the fact that most people don't know very much about us. Don't blame us for the misconception, though; we do everything in our power to let people know what we stand for. We even go door to door. It just seems like there are certain people who are determined to remain ignorant, and it feels like those people are the majority of the world. While these young men and women in business attire and name tags are often the best resource for questions about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I might as well enlighten you while you're here.
First of all, Mormons are often dumbfounded that people think we don't believe in Christ when the name of the Church is a testimony that Christ is the head of it. It is the church of Jesus Christ, plain and simple. All the latter-day saint part really means is that we believe we are in the last days, which is a completely separate issue. We are called the Mormons because we believe The Book of Mormon to be scripture, and while I don't necessarily object to being described as a "Mormon" (after all, the name of the church is pretty long), it can be very misleading. I'll get to that issue in another post.
Speaking of The Book of Mormon, my second point is that the central message of this book is that Christ is the Son of God and the Redeemer of mankind. If you don't believe me, Gentle Reader, encourage you read it for yourself. You can get a free copy at Mormon.org or read it free online here. Why not go to the source? The purpose of The Book of Mormon is to back up The Bible's witness of Christ's divinity and doctrine. Which leads me to point number three:
We believe The Bible to be the word of God, period. The average Mormon may not be as well versed in The Bible as members of other Christian sects, but we also have a lot more ground to cover since we believe that God continues to give revelation to men, which is again another issue. We believe in it all, from Adam to Abraham to Moses and the Messiah. We worry about the veracity of its various translations, but it is holy scripture to us, nonetheless.
My fourth point is that we constantly speak of Christ and His role as our Savior and actively seek his salvation in our daily lives. As I said before, if you don't believe me I encourage you to go to the source. Try attending a church meeting, bring a notepad, and make a tally of every time you hear someone talk about Christ. Due to the nature of our meetings, the number changes, but while it is easy for a person to go through the entire meeting without hearing the name of Joseph Smith, we pray in the name of Christ, speak in the name of Christ, and take upon ourselves His name and His commandments. If you would go to one of these meetings, Gentle Reader, you could see for yourself how we worship the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and the Christ of Peter, James, and John.
Lastly, while we honor Joseph Smith as a prophet, seer, and revelator, his glory stems from his ability to bring people to Christ. Bringing people to Christ is what a prophet does. We obey prophets because they bear the word of God, and as servants of the Almighty, they constantly bear witness of the divine mission of the Son of God. I invite you to look it up and see for yourself. In conclusion, we, the Mormons, believe that Jesus Christ is our Savior and strive to live by his words. As it says in The Book of Mormon, Second Nephi, chapter 25, verse 26: "And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins."
Regards, best wishes, and faith,
-Cecily Jane
P.S. I am aware that there are many arguments against the Church among anti-Mormons and other groups; my intention here is to present my own arguments for Christianity in Mormonism instead of presenting rebuttals for the people previously mentioned. This entry is more of a basic overview of my main thought on the subject.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Sorry, Readers!
My Dear Readers.
Plain Vanilla will resume posting later today or tomorrow. I plan on resuming my Tuseday posting schedule next week.
Thanks for your understanding!
-Cecily Jane
Plain Vanilla will resume posting later today or tomorrow. I plan on resuming my Tuseday posting schedule next week.
Thanks for your understanding!
-Cecily Jane
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Names
Dear Reader,
Whenever you call someone by the wrong name, you know it instantly by the look they shoot you--a strange mix of surprise, confusion, disgust, and loathing. I've gotten that look before, and I've come to the conclusion that I've earned my very occasional lapses because people mess up my name on a daily basis.
There's a simple trick that a lot of people use when they are at a place where everyone is wearing name tags and they want to pretend like they know what each person's name is: they approach a person and attempt to get a quick glance at the name tag before their target notices. It's quite effective with names like Michael or Sarah, but when people try this trick on me, they get a nasty surprise, because my name is somewhat unique and, I have learned, utterly unreadable. So they come up to someone else and say something like, "Hey, Ashley, how's it going?" and then come up to me and say, "Hey there, Celleisisctisticly . . . isil."
Up until the time I graduated high school, I dreaded anytime I had a substitute teacher who was taking roll. They would call out each name:
Teacher: "Jan?"
Jan: "Here."
Teacher: "Kurt?"
Kurt: "Here."
Teacher: "Rachael?"
Rachael: "Here."
And then get to mine . . .
Teacher: "Cel . . . cec . . celeste . . celily . . . Miss Harris?"
Cecily: "Here."
Eventually, in order to save time and confusion, I started responding like this:
Teacher: "Rachael?"
Rachael: "Here."
Cecily: "Cecily. Here."
Teacher: What?
Cecily: I'm next on the roll. I'm Cecily. I'm here.
Teacher: Okaaaay . . . Michael?
Then I worked at a bookstore where my duties sometimes involved taking phone calls. It would generally go something like this:
Cecily: A Certain Bookstore, this is Cecily.
Customer: Hello Leslie, do you have any such and such shirts in a such and such size?
Cecily: (sigh) Let me check.
The things that I have learned about human beings in this process have been quite remarkable. Firstly, when people are presented with a name in print, they will typically only read the first three letters and scan over the rest, which is a careless (and sometimes dangerous) way of doing things. Secondly, I've learned that sometimes when people encounter something strange and unfamiliar, they will decide that it is unimportant to fully embrace the object in question, even if it is something as vital as what someone is called. This explains the friends who called me Celery, Sicily, and Olivia because they couldn't or wouldn't learn how to say it the right way.
My name is Cecily. C-E-C-I-L-Y. It's spelled phonetically. There is only one e and one i. I am not Cicily or Sicily or Cecilia or Celeste or Leslie or anything else. My name is Cecily, and I will make sure to pronounce it clearly to you when we first meet so you will be able to pronounce it right the next time.
Of course, I understand that I just have a hard name and that I can't really expect people to get it the first time. The only people who get it right from the start either know another Cecily or love great literature.* Some days it gets kind of annoying, but I've trained myself to look on the positive side and instead see correct pronunciations as a pleasant surprise. What I'm trying to say here is that considering the things that I've been through I don't think that it's completely unreasonable to ask for some leeway when I mistakenly call someone by a name that isn't theirs.
Best wishes, regards, and owing ones,
-Cecily Jane
*My name comes from the play "The Importance of Being Earnest" by Oscar Wilde, which means that all of my English professors have thoroughly studied the work and therefore get it right every time. I think that's my absolute favorite thing about being an English major. I got the name because Madre was in the play in college as she sought her degree in Theater Arts.
Whenever you call someone by the wrong name, you know it instantly by the look they shoot you--a strange mix of surprise, confusion, disgust, and loathing. I've gotten that look before, and I've come to the conclusion that I've earned my very occasional lapses because people mess up my name on a daily basis.
There's a simple trick that a lot of people use when they are at a place where everyone is wearing name tags and they want to pretend like they know what each person's name is: they approach a person and attempt to get a quick glance at the name tag before their target notices. It's quite effective with names like Michael or Sarah, but when people try this trick on me, they get a nasty surprise, because my name is somewhat unique and, I have learned, utterly unreadable. So they come up to someone else and say something like, "Hey, Ashley, how's it going?" and then come up to me and say, "Hey there, Celleisisctisticly . . . isil."
Up until the time I graduated high school, I dreaded anytime I had a substitute teacher who was taking roll. They would call out each name:
Teacher: "Jan?"
Jan: "Here."
Teacher: "Kurt?"
Kurt: "Here."
Teacher: "Rachael?"
Rachael: "Here."
And then get to mine . . .
Teacher: "Cel . . . cec . . celeste . . celily . . . Miss Harris?"
Cecily: "Here."
Eventually, in order to save time and confusion, I started responding like this:
Teacher: "Rachael?"
Rachael: "Here."
Cecily: "Cecily. Here."
Teacher: What?
Cecily: I'm next on the roll. I'm Cecily. I'm here.
Teacher: Okaaaay . . . Michael?
Then I worked at a bookstore where my duties sometimes involved taking phone calls. It would generally go something like this:
Cecily: A Certain Bookstore, this is Cecily.
Customer: Hello Leslie, do you have any such and such shirts in a such and such size?
Cecily: (sigh) Let me check.
The things that I have learned about human beings in this process have been quite remarkable. Firstly, when people are presented with a name in print, they will typically only read the first three letters and scan over the rest, which is a careless (and sometimes dangerous) way of doing things. Secondly, I've learned that sometimes when people encounter something strange and unfamiliar, they will decide that it is unimportant to fully embrace the object in question, even if it is something as vital as what someone is called. This explains the friends who called me Celery, Sicily, and Olivia because they couldn't or wouldn't learn how to say it the right way.
My name is Cecily. C-E-C-I-L-Y. It's spelled phonetically. There is only one e and one i. I am not Cicily or Sicily or Cecilia or Celeste or Leslie or anything else. My name is Cecily, and I will make sure to pronounce it clearly to you when we first meet so you will be able to pronounce it right the next time.
Of course, I understand that I just have a hard name and that I can't really expect people to get it the first time. The only people who get it right from the start either know another Cecily or love great literature.* Some days it gets kind of annoying, but I've trained myself to look on the positive side and instead see correct pronunciations as a pleasant surprise. What I'm trying to say here is that considering the things that I've been through I don't think that it's completely unreasonable to ask for some leeway when I mistakenly call someone by a name that isn't theirs.
Best wishes, regards, and owing ones,
-Cecily Jane
*My name comes from the play "The Importance of Being Earnest" by Oscar Wilde, which means that all of my English professors have thoroughly studied the work and therefore get it right every time. I think that's my absolute favorite thing about being an English major. I got the name because Madre was in the play in college as she sought her degree in Theater Arts.
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