Slouchy Beanies and Newspaper Mushrooms

Life is about the making the days count, right?

Well, these days are counting.

God has given me a home. 

Let me tell you a little something, folks. Let Christ be your focus. Make Christ your focus. Share your heart and wash your hands. Heavenly Father will place the little things you need right in your hands and he wants you to set them free; to use your fingers to paint not only his words, but your life on to the sidewalks. Leave your light in the road, and your spirit on the chair. 

If you let Christ become your focus, he will let your life become his focus. Keep your goals on the line, and tell God what you want. No, actually, breathe, and share with him. Share with him your plans, and let him carry you. 

It's okay to be different, it's okay to be confused and it's okay to not know what's going to happen next. He knows, my darlings, he knows. Hold his gold plated hands and kiss his feet. 

1 Nephi 2:19-22

"19 And it came to pass that the Lord spake unto me, saying: Blessed art thou, Nephi, because of thy afaith, for thou hast sought me diligently, with lowliness of heart.

 20 And inasmuch as ye shall keep my commandments, ye shallaprosper, and shall be led to a bland of promise; yea, even a land which I have prepared for you; yea, a land which is choice above all other lands.

 21 And inasmuch as thy brethren shall rebel against thee, they shall be acut off from the presence of the Lord.

 22 And inasmuch as thou shalt keep my commandments, thou shalt be made a aruler and a teacher over thy brethren"

"Who picks out your outfits, Carolyn?"

enduringly,morgan.

Unnecessary Post About Photos and A Beautiful Boy

"You're beautiful every little piece love."

I want to write something beautiful tonight, but nothing is coming out beautiful. My art is in the photos tonight, which is okay; that's worth at least a thousand words right? The way you can capture some split second moment is incredible. Here's the thing about photos. They aren't about perfection, and that's something I'm about--imperfection.

I don't know that this is even necessary to post, really. I don't usually post things like this.

I love you, baby. Come home soon.

Overdue Eviction Notice

This isn't poetic, or full of metaphors, or even very beautiful. It's honest though. (Which I think makes it pretty beautiful.)

Here's what I don't know: whether or not you'll be reading this. Which makes it just a little bit harder to write. (Because I don't know how you'll take any of it.) You're tentative, I know. I've had about three people tell me that now. But I think that's what I like most right now. 

Here's the thing. I've finally decided that I don't care what I say because, I mean, you should know, probably. You're really good at making me worry, but not really in a bad way.

I like the little things, like the way you kiss the yellow lights and drive while you hold my hand. I like the way my forehead gets touched by your lips a lot and I love when you turn our show on when we cuddle.

We argue sometimes, but only about dumb things or because neither of us will make a decision. Sure, I want you to get mad at Josh (or at me because of Josh) sometimes, but I know you just don't want to be mean. I get jealous of Tyler a lot, but we'll talk about that later.

Here's to lunches, and dates, and never not smelling like chlorine. Here's to our best friends at the pool. 

We can see the stars tonight. Remember that? I wished you didn't have to go running that night. You told me once that you didn't want me to go and said, "Can't you just be a little bit late?" The world is smaller than what that meant to me.

I like when you let go of your worries and just say the things that are on your mind. I think you have a hard time opening up, and that's why it only happens sometimes.

I get afraid that you're going to run away because sometimes I need you, and sometimes I want to be needed by you, but I don't know of that's okay with you. If it is, hold one eye open and close the other.

Here's to your art, and your handwriting. 

I hope that what I said on your birthday didn't bother you. I know I like you more than you like me, but for now, that's okay. I think I handle it pretty well. I like how you always asked me to come with you places because those places needed both of us--I think.

We're funny, and we're good looking and we could probably rule the world, one boba at a time.

You're a really good teacher, and you just want to make people happy. You aren't afraid of your sarcasm but I think you're a little bit afraid of disappointing the ones you care about most. You're independent, really independent. You'll be there when I get injured because of birds. It'll happen, darling, and you'll be there. You're smart enough to know what you want, but also your mind is open to what may be placed in front of you to try. Maybe like me? I know you don't like surprises, but I think I was a little bit of one.

Keep smelling good and being concerned about what you're wearing. Thanks for liking me even though I was awkward at first.

I love your family and that you share them with me. I love Tyler and Shelly, and Patty, too. (probably not as much as you do, but you know.) I love the days we didn't leave each others sides and the day my fingers were in between yours all day. I like that sometimes I bother you because then I know it's real. That's such a cliche thing to say, but that word just wears me out. I love the amount of time we spent with Rachel and I love when you grab me from behind. I love the amount of movies we have watched. (Thanks Shelly.)

Here's to shopping, and car rides, and Tex, and laughing and cat stretching. Here's to the amount of time we've spent in your living room and the amount of money we've spent of frozen yogurt. Here's to hoping this wasn't too much for you to take in. Here's to these last seven days.

"Up yours." because "Wow bud, that's really cool."

Narcissistically Speaking

I'm finding myself again. Not finding myself, because I'm right down the unfinished staircase, but myself.

I guess I'm finding God again.

I do this thing sometimes where I like to know someone before I choose.

"You smell good." That's what you said to me, just like you've said a million times before, but this time it worked just enough. I get mad at myself sometimes, and I drive the car that I think will impress you. It worked. "'It's white.' That's all you have to say?" That sentence flew straight off your lips to make it seem like I didn't care that much, and that's just what I wanted. I did care though. I do, and I smiled about it on the way home.

The "notes" app on my iPod is filled with things that come out my ears and fall through my fingers and make clicking sounds. I never type in silence. I like award shows and laundry detergent and playing games on my bed while dissecting text messages

I write in my journal when it's most inconvenient because that's when I write best. I solve puzzles and I like the way Best Buy smells when you walk in. I can win a game of solitaire in four minutes and forty-seven seconds and I can finish Sudoku in seven minutes and three seconds.

Pretending that I'm busy is something that I'm good at. So is wearing leggings as pants when I'm home alone.

I am over protective of my youngest brother because the world scares me and it doesn't scare him enough. My mother and I get along until it comes down to shoes and scarves.

I wear colored shorts in the summer. Dark skin and country music feel like home. I notice when someone gets a new freckle because I notice that it's the sun giving his or her beautiful shoulders a kiss. I like shoulders.

You tell me I'm beautiful, and sometimes I whisper that into the glass before I leave for the morning. You tell me that you wish you could smell your mother as tears roll down your checks, and I tell you what my mother smells like; Clorox.

I hate the sound of the television when no one is watching, unless I'm falling asleep. The study of mental illnesses fascinates me. Did you know that?

I'm afraid of the future because I'm afraid of failure and decisions. Live music is the best kind of music.

I get goose bumps before I cry. I hold my breath when I get nervous and my fingers shake. If I like the way something feels, I'll run it across my lips, even if it's your hands.

I like when my father comes to church.

Fireworks are a part of me; I was born on the fourth day of the seventh month. You know that if you've ever brought up that day.

I like my hair, but I like hers just a little better. I'll probably touch your hair, if you have any. Also, your shoulders. I like shoulders.

A person’s eyes tell their story, just like their hands and lips do.

I'm here. I'm right down the unfinished staircase.

Enduringly,

M.organ