publishing peace

It's been a minute since I wrote. School has picked up, the social life too. It seems like I've got a lot of demands on my time lately, which is good -- it's always better to be busy than bored. But I also haven't written for other reasons. Imma get real with y'all -- I am sitting here looking at this screen, and I don't want to write. I don't want to write because I'm exhausted and ill. I don't want to write because I'm afraid of what people will think if I write about what's really on my mind. I don't want to write because I don't want my friends who are currently struggling to feel like I don't have time or space for them.  I don't want to write because I don't want you to know that I am not perfect yet, even though that's not a shocker to any of you. Or at least, it shouldn't be. It seems like over and over I've been learning that I really, really don't know anything. I don't want to write when I

On a cold day in March, a girl sat on a train, feeling like her stomach was tied into knots. She didn't know at the time, but she was days away from what would become the most difficult breakup up to that point in her life; what she did know was that something was wrong, and she didn't know how to fix it. She knew it wasn't a coincidence when she saw the missionaries. They came in droves from the bus to the train, wheeling their many suitcases into the train car. Their eyes were bright, maybe a little nervous. They were heading by train from the Missionary Training Center to the Salt Lake City International Airport, where they'd fly to their respective missions. The two that sat down across from our heroine were going to Cambodia. One was tall, with glasses; the other was silent, shorter, blond. "Hey," the one with the glasses said. "Hi," she said back, trying not to meet their eyes. As the train pulled out of the station, the elder asked he

I wish I was better at knowing how to begin this post. As is standard for this project of mine, I'm fixing to talk about something that is maybe not super easy to put into words. As a deeply mortal, extremely human, astonishingly flawed person, I find this a pretty daunting task. I've started and restarted this so many times I don't even know what's going to become of it; I'm just gonna write and see what happens. I guess firstly I just want to be clear on the reason I choose to share what I do. As with most social media elements, what you see on my blog is not the full, unabridged version of my life. There's a lot more that happens than can be read about here. I'm a part-time student, a part-time employee, and a full-time friend, family member, and person, and a lot of what colors my life is the people that I am blessed to experience it with. I don't write about them very often, at least not specifically and/or categorically. That's not because I d

I feel like this is what people usually think I do when I tell them I write on a blog, when really, I usually just write what I'm thinking about. And there's gonna be that in this post as well, but it's been like, two months since I posted on this blog. And I'm sure you've all been so concerned! Wondering if I'm okay! Wondering if I sustained brain damage and that's why I stopped writing! Well, let me clarify: I am good. No life-threatening injuries have been sustained (yet or ideally ever, pray for me). I didn't drop off the face of the earth because I wasn't doing well. Honestly, I wasn't sure what to write about after Europe. Maybe a little piece of me was even worried that none of you would like to hear my thoughts anymore, because they're not fancy Europe-inspired thoughts. But there have been some things going on in my life, and some thoughts I've been having, and I'd just like to share with you, in a random assortment th

Dear Emily, Right now, you aren't sure of anything. You're not as bright-eyed as you were. You're a little jaded, a bit hurt by life and the world. And you're not sure if you can ever be the person you were. I'm here to tell you that you can't. You can't be the person you were anymore, and that is beautiful. You don't know what's coming and I can't prepare you for it, but looking back to where you are, I can only tell you the things you'll want to remember. We'll start with the kids. You'll want to remember how they pronounce the English words. You'll want to take a lot of videos. And pictures. And you'll want to remember the times they laughed at your goofiness.  You'll want to remember the considerate translation of your host mom and how your host dad brags about you to all their friends. "She understands Italian so well!" "She sings so well!" And you'll want to remember their fr

I believe that life is made for the moments you run to, climb to, or work for. I've made plenty of memories like that. Just last week I sat here writing the tale of a bell tower that I climbed just for the view. The city of Rome was jam packed with running from historical monument to historical monument just so I could see what I came there for. But there are also other moments. The moments where you can find some rest from your adventures and make a piece of home. And for all the miles I have traveled, and all the memories I've made, I think some of my favorites will be the ones where I wasn't running. I was just breathing. I don't even know where I went last Saturday. It was somewhere on Lake Maggiore, for a picnic with the host son's class. And I didn't get very many photos, because it was warm and golden and gray and green, and it felt like a gift in a way. I know that sounds kind of silly, but it was kind of like that same God who touched Adam'

Open your eyes and see what you can with them before they close to you forever. I stood this weekend on the rooftop of a pink-and-green bell tower overlooking what felt like millions of red Tuscan rooftops and gripped the metal cage boxing us all in, keeping us safe but also keeping us from taking flight, which is kind of what I felt like I wanted to do. As I pressed my forehead to it and watched the golden light cast hazy shadows over the old, beautiful buildings, this thought came into my mind. It's a line from "All the Light We Cannot See", a book by Anthony Doerr. Interestingly enough, the title of the book has also been in my thoughts. It's an idea in itself; an implication that there is light unseen, but that doesn't make the light any less there. There's something hopeful, comforting about that -- and motivating too. That there is light to seek, that everything is more than just what you see, that every person is magic inside.  It makes me feel swept

I don't know where to start this. I don't even really know what to write about, because every time I try I find myself in a kind of daydream -- a vast, crooked mountain watches over a little town tucked into a valley that is green and bursting with wildflowers. Sounds idyllic, but it's the reality of Zermatt, Switzerland, where you can find the Matterhorn: a towering specter of a rock jutting high above the land.  It's quite a lonely peak, bleak and weather-beaten. I've heard that often it's obscured by clouds, but I was lucky. When I visited, the sun never stopped shining. There was a cool breeze through the canyon. And a polka concert welcomed me at the town center as I stepped off the train. Overall, my timing cannot be characterized as anything but providential.  It was worth the price of the train ticket just to be there. If you're following along with me in my travels, you might remember how last week I was in Rome -- and there is so much that is bea

Of the many hardships I have had to endure on this sojourn to Europe, the worst by far has been sleeping in airport.  I'm only sort of kidding. Have you ever tried to sleep by yourself in an airport? In a foreign country?  Let me explain. I was already on edge, as it were. Having "one of those days". And in the morning I was going to Rome by plane -- only a 45-minute flight, but we were flying out at 7, and I had no way to get to the airport that early in the morning, so I had to stay at the airport. I had a mental breakdown on the train on the way there, probably making all the other passengers very nervous, and also my cab driver from the train to the airport.  And then I finally got there, checked in, and tried to get through security, but they wouldn't let me through to the gates until the next day. That was just one thing too many for me, and so, with all the wretchedness of any proper Regency-era heroine, I rushed to the bathroom, locked myself in, and wept.

I hate romantic movies with sad endings. I guess I should clarify what I mean by "sad". I'm not talking The Notebook , where they die in each other's arms, I'm talking La La Land . (Controversial, I know.) Or Me Before You. Every time I watch one of these movies, it's like, "really? Of all the beautiful stories about romance you could've chosen to use your immense cinematic budget and resources to tell, you pick this one?!" It's a travesty, really. In my opinion, a complete waste of time. I don't want to suffer through the inevitable blunders, miscommunications, and possibly painful moments in a romantic film only to get to the end and find out the couple did not end up together, esp ecially when it's about dumb stuff that could be solved in a conversation if both participants were willing to figure it out. Because what, I ask you, is even the point of telling those stories, if not to help us to believe that in the end, if it&#

I've seen things Shakespeare has seen. Really, that's remarkable. History considers it likely that Shakespeare had visited Italy, or even that he was secretly Italian, because of how accurate and intimate the accounts of the places he talks about are. It's not hard to remember as you glimpse fair Verona out the window of a train. That's where two teenagers fell in love, crossing stars that would inspire so many others to cross it was like embroidery stitches. That's where Romeo beheld Juliet on her balcony and said, "what light through yonder window breaks?" You really can't forget this when the sun comes out from behind the clouds for a minute and Verona is lighted. It's like Juliet herself commissioned the heavens for me. "She's young and she falls in love easy. She's a real romantic," she'd probably say. "Let's give her some magic." And so the clouds break and the light comes in. It is the east. Juliet is t

I was not favored to be born Portuguese. In a way, much of the country is a mystery to me -- the customs, the history, the geography, the language especially. But what I do understand is saudade . If you plug that word into Google translate, you get "missing" -- a direct translation for a word that seems not to have one. It is the melancholic remembrance of the way things were, a word for the heartbreaks, big and small, that inevitably follow any sort of significant change. It is a love song for the things you've lost over time. In truth, it's hard for anybody, especially a non-expert like me, to really put into words what saudade is; but it is a universal emotion that somehow hurts and connects. Everyone feels it. Saudade is what colors the city of Lisbon, spilling into everything from their cobblestones to their street art to the fado music played only in dim lights, where everyone puts down their forks and listens. Saudade is even audible in the cadence of th

Imagine this. It is the perfect temperature outside. The sun is shining. And you are sitting beneath a canopy of wisteria and honeysuckle, the smell of them filling you up as the folks around you talk in rapid-fire Italian and laugh at jokes you are beginning to understand. Any minute now they'll bring you antipasto, and you will twist your fork around beef just barely browned at the edges, prosciutto with honey and walnuts, fresh mozzarella. The children will try to speak English to you, even the ones who don't know it well yet, and you will delight with them in all their discoveries and accomplishments, which they are anxious to share with you. This is my reality. It's taking my eyes some time to get adjusted to the brightness of it all, and it's taking my brain some time to process how amazing it is that I have been where I have been. My host family is always checking on me. They are always saying my name. "Emily, how is the [food I just tried]? Emily, how d

Wow, wild week! I arrived in Italy Monday night. It's been a wonderful week of exploring my cool little northern Italian town, getting to know my host family, and seeing Design Week in Milan (which really felt like a chick flick moment, might I add). Salone Del Mobile has left me feeling very inspired. For six hours I got to walk around a world-famous display of interior/exterior design elements from acclaimed designers throughout the world. My mind was absolutely blown, and it was super cool to have the lid explode off the top of what I thought was possible as far as design. I kept notes of things I saw that got my gears turning. I'd like to go back there someday -- but not just to look, to work! It's become so clear to me that part of Christ's reason for sharing the talent parable is because He knew how many of us would hide not only our talents but our personalities. I saw a sign at Salone Del Mobile that read: "Build your own dreams or someone else will hir