FHE+Devo=Eternity.

Every Monday night Mormon families across the world are participating in Family Home Evening or FHE. Usually this Monday night activity consists of being with your family, having a lesson (on the gospel, emergency preparedness, wilderness survival, etc…), a game, and a treat. At BYU-Idaho FHE consists of being thrown together with a group of people who more than likely you would never talk to under different circumstances, a lesson, flirting and consorting with the opposite sex (this only occurs if you are lucky enough to be in the 10% that doesn’t hate their group), and treats. For those of you thinking but its called FAMILY Home Evening!? Uh ya….I wish I knew how to answer that.

Fall FHE Group:

A is the mom. C is the dad. C took this being dad and all thing kinda literal. He started texting A things like, “Goodnight my love” or “a kiss from your husband” or “if you ever need a knight in shining armor, I’m right here.” This last one is possibly the cheesiest thing you could ever tell a girl who is forced to hang out with you once a week. It didn’t take long for C to fall head over heels for his forced once a week “wife” A didn’t like him, or his loving comments. Not even a little. C persisted and asked A to what BYU-Idaho students have endearingly termed a devo date. Devotional or devo for short is held every Tuesday in the Hart auditorium. Students dress in their Sunday best and listen to a speaker speak of speaker like things.

A & C’s devo date:

A: You all are coming to devotional with me. C asked me to go so you all have to come.

J, T, L, M, & S: (giggles)

J, T, L, M, & S: (more giggles)

L: But he asked you! We can’t go!

T: Ya plus I don’t want to.

A: I don’t care.

In the end A convinced L, M, & S to go with her. At devo she strategically placed herself between L and M. C not very happy with the extra company and the odd seating arrangements comforted himself by doodling. Suddenly, he picked up A’s scriptures, strategically placed the doodle somewhere in their pages, and then continued dreaming about one day A being his real eternity. A had not missed a thing. She quickly found the doodle and was relieved that it was nothing more than a penguin.

Now boys and girls I would love to tell you that this story has a happy ending but sadly not all FHE romances and devo dates end in fairy tales. The penguin did not break the curse and C was left hoping that one day his FHE princess would change her mind. She didn’t.

Rexburg.

Rexburg.

1 town. 8 apartment complexes. 12 apartments. 41 roommates. 3 best friends. Late nights, sleepy giggles, Denny’s runs, whip cream game, burnt carnations, sleepovers, Mean Girls & A Cinderella Story, dance parties, Saturday nights.

5 boyfriends. 1 fiancé. 2 regrets. Lots of dates, a few make outs, lessons learned, flirty texts, crushes, first kiss, m&m’s, Buckmaster.

6 run-ins with cops. 1 Wal Mart roof. 1 21 run. To much Tequila. (Don’t worry dad, not me) megaphones, boredom, burnt couches.

2 cars. 1 bike. Countless miles on foot. 1 car fire. 5 breakdowns. 2 speeding tickets. 1 warrant. 15 hours community service. 2 driver’s license tests. 1 Idaho license. Round-abouts, unplowed roads, spin outs, 4 way stops.

5 jobs. Lots of bosses. 3 years, 1 month, 10 days-plasma center. Biomedics. PCCI. Biomat. 6576 sticks. Hours of boredom, paychecks, friends, coworkers, donors, college football, “that’s what she said”, -40 degree freezers, countless liters of plasma.

1 degree. 1 major. 1 minor. 11 semesters. 122 credits. 3 retakes. Papers, books, portfolios, 3^rd floor library, to many winters.

Rexburg. 4 years.

4 years of my life summed up in numbers. Broken down. Assessed. Dismissed. But the numbers don’t give feeling to the memory associated. There is no life in numbers. The numbers don’t tell about the countless times we snuck out my window; to avoid roommates, to avoid FHE, for candy corn wars, for the lawn that offered sunshine. They avoid the man driving his tractor in a Sunday suit, the drinks bought from Sonic. The bitter cold of a Rexburg night when you walk home from work and the wind cuts through the paper-thin scrubs, you step in a puddle and your leg almost immediately freezes. They don’t capture the scream at KFC, the sound of Guitar Hero. The beauty of my best friends can’t be seen in a number. 6 times I was sent to the dean. But in all reality I just wanted my screen off my window and to sit in the hot tub. Reasons missed in the number six. The stupidity of riding a long board down a hill on your stomach isn’t

in a number even though we only had to try it once. Numbers don’t account for heartbreak, for the countless miles driven to escape Rexburg. To Vegas. 8 short hours and Palm trees are within reach, sunshine and happiness seem possible. To Boise. 4 hours; a short distance to avoid the thoughts you can’t think.

I wish Rexburg could be broken down, assessed, dismissed. The negative memories forgotten, buried and gone. But the truth is it can’t. Somewhere along the way I stopped avoiding referring to Rexburg as home. I stopped saying “I’m headed back to my apt” and simply “I’m headed home.” Somewhere along the way Rexburg became home. And it simply cannot be dismissed because 4 years of life happened here. Rexburg-where you can play in the snow 3 months of the year. The other 9 are to cold. 654,294,273 memories.

Nightmares and Man Eaters

About every week I have a dream. I’m a bride. The look of the dream is never exactly the same. Sometimes I’m dressed in jeans, sometimes I’m in all white and looking gorgeous. Sometimes my family is there. Sometimes no one is there. I’m at a temple. I’m at a park. The feel of the dream is always the same. I’m terrified. I don’t want to. Turn, run, get out.

The latest: I’m dressed in a stiff business like suit. Cream. I walk down a dark aisle in a random church. My groom: Dark, curly hair. Muscular. Very. All in all good looking. I don’t want to marry him. The preacher, father, reverend, whatever he is, is talking to us. We both say I do. The real wedding is about to start. I walk down the aisle. Fight or flight. Flight. “You’re already married” someone says, “When you were talking to the preacher you said I do.” It’s to late. I wake up in a cold sweat. Realize it was a dream and try to calm my rushed breathing and hammering heart. At least I didn’t wake up screaming this time.

Now being the logical person I am I know that either Freud or some psychic out there has the answer. Seeing as Freud would simply claim that I have some sexually repressed desire towards my father’s mother’s brother’s son’s uncle’s grandson’s father twice removed well I went with the psychic. Google presented me with two options. Dream Dictionary and Aunt Flo. Dream Dictionary states: “A wedding reflects your issues about commitment and independence. Such dreams are often negative and highlight some anxiety or fear.” Cheers. Aunt Flo agrees with this, “To get married in your dream-Independence is being questioned.” Double cheers. Who ever thought a Google dream psychic would be right?