hesitation.
“Because you’re sick of the sandwich shop?”
I thought about it. “That’s only part of it. I was mostly bummed because I realized how much I love the idea of getting into journalism. If I hadn’t already been dating Landon when I started at BYU, I probably would have majored in it. Now I can’t shake the idea.”
“Then don’t. Focusing on something you want and working toward it is going to make you happy. Just know that sometimes disappointments happen, and you have to work through them.” He tugged my plate toward him to finish off my crusts, a familiar gesture that made me feel childish and loved all at once.
“I’m still worried I’m going to go ballistic again,” I said. “It sneaks up on me.”
“Awareness of the possibility will help more than anything else,” he said. “But it will also help to keep inviting the Spirit into your life.”
“Read my scriptures, pray, and go to church,” I said, intoning the rote Primary answers.
“Of course,” he said, unruffled. “And count your blessings. Or put another way, how are your thank you notes coming?”
“Great,” I said. “Two weeks, two notes. Couldn’t be better.”
“Mm-hm. I saw the note you wrote to Ginger. Very letter of the law.”
I flushed.
He leaned forward and made sure I held his gaze before he spoke again. “I think it’s still part of your problem. If you can focus on the things you do have, the things that are going right for you, then maybe you won’t worry so much about the things that sometimes don’t.” He reached over and punctuated each of his next words with a light tap of his finger on the back of my hand. “Write them like you mean them. See if it makes a difference.”
I sighed but nodded. Wherever this path led, I didn’t want to turn back now. If that meant following my dad’s advice . . . the truth was he’d never been wrong about big stuff like this yet. “Anything else you think I should do?”
“Yeah. Keep going after your dream job. You don’t like the Bee anyway, and they only put you one no closer to a yes.”
* * *
Getting the Bee interview turned out to be a total fluke. My phone did not ring off the hook with calls from every newspaper I’d sent my résumé to. A tiny part of me was glad because I didn’t want to embarrass myself again when they realized it was, um . . . a load of hooey.
What a difference a week makes. Last Sunday I’d researched newspaper jobs to prove to my dad that I couldn’t get one. Now I wanted desperately to prove to myself, and maybe to stupid Tanner Graham, that I could.
I dressed for church and thought about my dilemma. Tanner was obnoxious but right, which made him more obnoxious. I didn’t have the skills to write for a big paper, but how was I supposed to get them? And he was also right that big papers everywhere were fighting for the readers who were migrating to all the free news on the Internet. Which meant . . .
Maybe it was time to turn in a real résumé to Ellie Peters and her Internet project. And maybe it was time to put my dad’s gratitude theory to the test. Tomorrow would be soon enough to tackle my career change and check out the Ellie Peters lead, but today I needed to start on something else, something perfect for a Sunday: writing a real thank you note.
When I slipped into the chapel, my Sunday friend Courtney smiled and moved her scriptures so I could sit down. Over the last several months, an unspoken tradition had evolved between us. She saves me a seat on the last bench, and then we share a hymn book. I don’t know much about her beyond exchanging names after the first Sunday she shifted over for me, but it’s nice not to sit alone or with strangers every week. She was only mostly a stranger. To tell the truth, I should be going to the Battle Creek ward, but I drive all the way to the Willow Canyon YSA ward in Alpine instead. Too many people from my childhood and adolescence attend Battle Creek ward, and I
“Because you’re sick of the sandwich shop?”
I thought about it. “That’s only part of it. I was mostly bummed because I realized how much I love the idea of getting into journalism. If I hadn’t already been dating Landon when I started at BYU, I probably would have majored in it. Now I can’t shake the idea.”
“Then don’t. Focusing on something you want and working toward it is going to make you happy. Just know that sometimes disappointments happen, and you have to work through them.” He tugged my plate toward him to finish off my crusts, a familiar gesture that made me feel childish and loved all at once.
“I’m still worried I’m going to go ballistic again,” I said. “It sneaks up on me.”
“Awareness of the possibility will help more than anything else,” he said. “But it will also help to keep inviting the Spirit into your life.”
“Read my scriptures, pray, and go to church,” I said, intoning the rote Primary answers.
“Of course,” he said, unruffled. “And count your blessings. Or put another way, how are your thank you notes coming?”
“Great,” I said. “Two weeks, two notes. Couldn’t be better.”
“Mm-hm. I saw the note you wrote to Ginger. Very letter of the law.”
I flushed.
He leaned forward and made sure I held his gaze before he spoke again. “I think it’s still part of your problem. If you can focus on the things you do have, the things that are going right for you, then maybe you won’t worry so much about the things that sometimes don’t.” He reached over and punctuated each of his next words with a light tap of his finger on the back of my hand. “Write them like you mean them. See if it makes a difference.”
I sighed but nodded. Wherever this path led, I didn’t want to turn back now. If that meant following my dad’s advice . . . the truth was he’d never been wrong about big stuff like this yet. “Anything else you think I should do?”
“Yeah. Keep going after your dream job. You don’t like the Bee anyway, and they only put you one no closer to a yes.”
* * *
Getting the Bee interview turned out to be a total fluke. My phone did not ring off the hook with calls from every newspaper I’d sent my résumé to. A tiny part of me was glad because I didn’t want to embarrass myself again when they realized it was, um . . . a load of hooey.
What a difference a week makes. Last Sunday I’d researched newspaper jobs to prove to my dad that I couldn’t get one. Now I wanted desperately to prove to myself, and maybe to stupid Tanner Graham, that I could.
I dressed for church and thought about my dilemma. Tanner was obnoxious but right, which made him more obnoxious. I didn’t have the skills to write for a big paper, but how was I supposed to get them? And he was also right that big papers everywhere were fighting for the readers who were migrating to all the free news on the Internet. Which meant . . .
Maybe it was time to turn in a real résumé to Ellie Peters and her Internet project. And maybe it was time to put my dad’s gratitude theory to the test. Tomorrow would be soon enough to tackle my career change and check out the Ellie Peters lead, but today I needed to start on something else, something perfect for a Sunday: writing a real thank you note.
When I slipped into the chapel, my Sunday friend Courtney smiled and moved her scriptures so I could sit down. Over the last several months, an unspoken tradition had evolved between us. She saves me a seat on the last bench, and then we share a hymn book. I don’t know much about her beyond exchanging names after the first Sunday she shifted over for me, but it’s nice not to sit alone or with strangers every week. She was only mostly a stranger. To tell the truth, I should be going to the Battle Creek ward, but I drive all the way to the Willow Canyon YSA ward in Alpine instead. Too many people from my childhood and adolescence attend Battle Creek ward, and I
Similar Books
