When Hindsight Becomes Foresight

Spoiler alert: this blog post mentions infertility, depression, and suicidal ideation. I've tried to address these topics with sensitivity and authenticity, but if you need to skip this post for the sake of your own mental health, I completely understand.

About seven years ago, I decided it was time to have another kid. We already had three, but I'd thought for several years that our family wouldn't be complete until we had one more, and now the time finally felt right. My depression was under control, I'd stopped taking medication, and we'd moved closer to family. Plus, it felt like God was telling me the time was finally right. I was energized and hopeful.

I didn't get pregnant the first month, which wasn't weird, so it was fine. I didn't the second month, either--but my sister-in-law did. They announced their awesome news at a family gathering. I probably felt a little bad, but the women in my husband's family are notoriously fertile. It was fine. Completely fine.

I told my brother-in-law's wife that we were trying to conceive. She knew exactly how I felt. Though she and her husband didn't have trouble conceiving, she did have a hard time carrying pregnancies to term. We'd bonded before over our shared misery of having married into such a baby-come-easy family.

Then, a month or several later, she said she was pregnant, too.

This made me feel a little worse--or, you know, maybe a lot worse. I tried to be happy for her, but I wasn't, not at all. Now I was an awful person in addition to *not* pregnant.

This was sometime in the winter, which was colder, snowier, and generally more miserable than my last ten winters had been. I'm sure this had something to do with my worsening depression, but I was too far gone to make that logical connection, and my depression quickly spiraled into suicidal thoughts. Church was soul-suckingly bad, and family gatherings were worse. At least my *other* brother-in-law's wife had no bun in the proverbial oven and showed no signs of wanting one. We didn't talk as much, but I decided we were tight, on the same side, and all of that.

Until--you guessed it--she announced that she was having her first baby.

There were now three babies coming to my husband's family, and not a single one was mine. Why was God rewarding them but somehow not rewarding me? Was I less righteous, less deserving? Then why had I felt so strongly that the time was finally right?

This was in, like, February, and my suicidal thoughts were pretty much out of control. After sitting down to talk about it with my husband's parents, I decided I would give myself two more months to conceive. The thought of giving God a deadline didn't sit quite right with me, but even I could tell that this was rapidly becoming a life-or-death situation. Two more tedious months passed, and I didn't get pregnant.

Still.

I was beaten. I was vanquished. Scheduling that doctor's visit felt like admitting defeat. I mean, I knew I had to do it--for myself, my family--but I didn't *want* to do it. And I didn't understand why God had let me wander recklessly so far down the wrong path.

The day of the appointment came. I told the doctor all my crap. (I've been doing authenticity since before it became cool.) Then she told me something wondrous, something I'd wondered about but never let myself believe: there was a type of medication that would *not* affect the fetus even if I took it straight through an entire pregnancy.

This, of course, was the solution, the detour I couldn't see from where I was firmly stuck. I started this new medication, and after working out the dosage over the next several months, I managed to sweet-talk my husband into trying to conceive again. (He was understandably gun-shy after the year that we'd endured.)

We got pregnant right away, and our Gummy Bear was born in April of 2018.

This wasn't the first time that, with the benefit of hindsight, I could see how Heavenly Father's plan was so much better than *my* plan, but I swore it would be the last. This ordeal had to have changed me. The next time I hit a roadblock, I couldn't spend weeks, months, or years working myself into a frenzy or shaking my fists at God. I had to hope. I had to trust. I had to let myself believe that God really does know what He's doing, that He's looking out for me, and that He knows how to do more with and make more of my life than I ever could alone.

I didn't know it then, but as it turned out, my next hard thing had already begun. EARTH TO DAD had sold to Capstone in February of 2017--right when, incidentally, I was going nuclear--and since then, perhaps you've noticed that I haven't sold a thing. *I* didn't notice right away, but it's become hard to ignore. I also had to leave an agent after he didn't connect with the new stuff I was writing, and the new agent I found had to medically retire in May earlier this year.

But honestly? I'm fine. Actually, completely fine. Do I wish I'd made a sale in the last six or seven years? Um, of course, yes, absolutely. But am I foaming at the mouth because my journey hasn't gone the way I wanted it to go? For once, thankfully, no. I still have some not-great days, but for the most part, I've been able to keep writing, writing, writing and give God the time and space to lead me down the proper road. I hope I'll know it when I see it, but until then, I'm content to keep waiting on the Lord. There are much worse ways to wait.

How I Found My Birth Mom

This is a Very Long Story, one I haven't blogged about because I genuinely thought it would make a better book. I still plan to write that book, but after trying--and failing--to get a single chapter down, I decided it might help to write a single blog post first.

Almost two years ago now, I convinced my little sister to audition for a genealogy-based reality TV show with me. Very long first half of this Very Long Story short, we didn't make the final cut, but we did spit in the tubes, so we ultimately gained access to the research they'd begun. They turned over that research almost a year ago exactly--and their research was spot-on. It identified my birth dad and a host of half siblings. But as I mentioned in this post, it couldn't pinpoint my birth mom, since she was adopted, too. At first, I was kind of bummed, but then I was kind of glad. The thought of solving this last mystery on my own made me happy.

My saliva HAD pinpointed the two probable families my birth mom descended from, the Monroes and the Carpentiers. That is, one of her birth parents was likely one of six siblings in this specific Monroe family while the other was likely one of four or five siblings in this clan of Carpentiers. Sadly, two of the Monroes and three of the Carpentiers had already passed away, but if I could reach the others, maybe they would have more clues.

I started scouring the internet for contact information for the still-living siblings. I found three or four phone numbers for each sibling on average, but as you might expect, very few of them still worked. When I was able to track down one of the Carpentier daughters, I literally did a jig. But her mind wasn't all there, so though she mentioned that her sister HAD placed a baby for adoption, I discounted what she'd said.

Fast forward a few months. After speaking to more siblings and poring over my matches, I was able to determine with a high degree of confidence that my birth mom's birth parents were Theodore William Monroe Jr. and Gayle Mae Carpentier. The problem was that both were dead, so they couldn't shed more light on exactly when or where my birth mom had been born. I could make educated guesses based, but without a date or place, I'd kind of reached a dead end.

I kept digging, though, kept fighting. I barked up some other trees. And somewhere along the way, I found out about Utah's voluntary adoption registry. Governed by the health department, the adoption registry matches adult adoptees with biological relatives if both parties come to them. But did you notice how I said that the adoption registry is governed by the health department? They were kind of swamped last year, so you could no longer walk in and fill out an application. You could mail one to their office IF it had been notarized.

This was back in the late spring. The formal lockdown had expired, but my county was under a blanket stay-at-home directive, and I just didn't feel good about violating that (even if I thought my reason was, you know, better than most). I let my application sit. And sit and sit and sit some more. Then, when October rolled around, a still, small voice whispered, "It's time." I strapped on my snuggest mask, went and found a notary, and sent off that application.

According to the website, it could take up to six weeks to hear your application's status. I thought I could handle that; I'm a writer, after all. Two weeks came and went, then six, and then two full months had passed. I decided to check in. A few days later, they informed me that they'd had to send away for the records on my case but that I should hear more soon. That Friday, I got an e-mail.

They'd managed to make a match.

I almost couldn't believe it. I also couldn't stop grinning. After running around and screaming for, like, an hour, I texted the number they'd sent.

It was my birth mom's. I'd found her.

Since that splenderific day, my birth mom and I have FaceTimed for three hours at a stretch on more than one occasion. We also got a chance to meet when she and her fiancé came for a previously scheduled ski trip.

This picture was taken safely. Please wear a mask in AT&T's stores.

The fact that my birth mom was also placed for adoption was, at least initially, one of my biggest stumbling blocks. Now that I've (finally!) found her, though, I've come to think of it instead as one of my biggest blessings. She knows exactly how I feel because she was adopted, too, and she knows how much I'll always love my adoptive family because she was adopted, too. But I hope she also knows how grateful I am for HER. I would NOT be where I am without her genes and her decisions. She gave me a fantastic start.

An Open Letter to My Birth Mom

Dear Birth Mom,

You don't know me. We met exactly once, on the day that I was born, but by then, you'd been in labor for, like, forty-eight hours, so you must have been exhausted. (I'm so sorry about that.) I hope they let you hold me for at least a little while, but they probably didn't. I'm sorry about that, too.

I should probably back up. Last year, I spit into a tube as part of the audition process for a reality TV show. I didn't make the show because my sister and her husband decided to have a baby (which is a whole other blog post), but I DID get the results from that tube I spit into. And guess what?! They found my birth dad.

He died twenty years ago.

In a car accident, sadly. I learned this from his other kids. I know you knew that he had kids, but did you know that one was only six years younger than you were? I guess he lied about his age. Is that why you didn't get married? I used to think it was because he wasn't a member of your church, but as it turns out, he was. Now I'm not sure what to think. Maybe you broke up with him before you found out about me, or maybe he broke up with you BECAUSE he found out about me. (I really hope that isn't it.) Hopefully, I'll get to ask.

As you've probably surmised, my spit couldn't pinpoint you. I'm quite certain it's because you were placed for adoption, too. But here's the most amazing thing--since my spit is half your spit, it found YOUR birth mom and dad.

   

Unfortunately, they're dead, too.

Are you noticing a theme? My head keeps reminding me that our genes weren't built to last, but my heart keeps holding on. I really need to tell you thanks for letting me derail your life. For giving me life, period. And for giving me two parents who went to the moon and back to help me become who I am. But you were adopted, too, so maybe you already know. Still, I'd love to say the words and meet you face to face. Again.

Until then, I won't give up. I'll chase every lead I have. It might take a little longer thanks to this lovely pandemic, but I'm strong-willed. I'm persistent. And I'm going to find you (in the friendliest possible way). 

Your birth daughter,

Krista

In Pursuit of Patience

Three and a half years ago, in the fall of 2016, I got the impression it was time for Chris and me to try to have another baby. This was kind of monumental. From the time Monster was small--from the time he was born, really--I'd assumed we'd have another. I could almost hear her footsteps pattering around the house, and when I looked for my kids, I constantly looked for a fourth.

The timing had never been right. During most of 2013, spilling into 2014, I'd been majorly depressed. I felt like I SHOULD have a baby, but I didn't WANT another, which just made me MORE depressed. I'd been taught for years and years that children were a gift from God and that having and raising them were two of life's main purposes, so if I didn't want another, I was clearly horrible.

After going to a therapist once or twice a month for more than a year, I went back on medication. That put baby plans on hold, as I was under the impression that you couldn't have a baby while taking antidepressants. I was part relieved, part sad.

By sometime in 2015, I was feeling pretty good. I weaned myself off medication without talking to my doctor. (This was NOT a good idea.) Then 2016 struck. As I detailed in this post, Chris received a job transfer that really threw me for a loop. Still, I came to the conclusion I included in that post:

"I believe God was doing more with my life than I could do with it on my own. It's hard to let go, but I believe He loves and cares for us as a father loves and cares for his children. And because fathers are anxious to see their children succeed, He will help us steer our ships if we're willing to trust Him. In other words, when we let Him in, He won't ever let us down."

Three months after writing that, I was getting the impression it was time for Chris and me to try to have another baby. I was nervous but excited. As I detailed in THIS post, Chris and I had had to deal with infertility before. But this time, I was sure we were definitely doing what God wanted us to do. I was confident that meant the sailing would be fairly smooth.

I smile as I write that now. Hadn't I already learned that God carried out His plan, not what I thought His plan should be? I should have, but I hadn't. I was in for a crash course.

One month went by, then two. A sister-in-law announced that she was pregnant. I was mad despite myself. This sister-in-law had always gotten pregnant on the first or second try. Why had she never had to work? I shared some of these feelings with another sister-in-law, one who's miscarried several times. She completely understood.

Then, a month later, SHE announced that she was pregnant.

I cried a lot that winter, tried to get inside God's head. I hadn't really expected to get pregnant that first month, but what about the fifth or sixth? And why was God dispatching babies to every other family in our family? Was there something wrong with us? Were we less faithful, less deserving?

By the time March rolled around, I thought I was all cried out. Then a third sister-in-law, who'd put off having kids for years, announced that she was pregnant, too.

It was right around this time that I admitted to myself I was probably more depressed than I'd ever been before. I would go on crying jags that would, like, compress my chest and make it difficult to breathe, and my suicidal thoughts were slowly developing into suicidal plans. I spoke openly with Chris about the problems I was having, but they never went away. By April, I conceded to seeking medical help. We scheduled an appointment right away.

Chris went into this appointment thinking our window had closed. We'd tried. We'd failed. Time to move on. That said, I was less convinced. Why had I received that prompting if our family was complete? I know God sometimes allows us to take steps down the wrong path so we can pinpoint the right one, but that answer didn't sit. I was hopeful that the doctor would provide a better one.

Maybe you've already guessed what I learned at that appointment. As it turns out, I was wrong--there IS an antidepressant childbearing women can take from conception to delivery. Multiple studies have shown it has little to no impact on developing babies, and it's safe to take for days, weeks, months, even years.

This changed everything, of course. I walked away from that appointment feeling like I'd found the answer I'd been looking so hard for. And sure enough, a few months later, once this wondrous medication had had time to take effect and I was feeling good again, I got pregnant on the first try.

I could almost hear God's voice speaking softly to my heart: "THIS was the way for you to go. THIS was the path I chose for you. Wasn't it better than the path you would have chosen for yourself?"

What did I say after our house in Mesquite finally sold? "And because fathers are anxious to see their children succeed, He will help us steer our ships if we're willing to trust Him." You see, I ALREADY KNEW that God's way always works out. But when the next storm arose, I forgot and wrung my hands. What will we do, what will we do, what will we do, what will we DO? And yet I already knew: keep calm, carry on, and let Jesus take the wheel.

God allows us to pass through faith-promoting tests and trials just so they'll promote our faith. And if we let them work in us--in us, through us, and around us--then the next time we're confronted with a faith-promoting test, we'll be able to press forward and, if not rest fully easy, then at least rest easier.

Why am I sharing this now? Because I'm waiting to hear back on a non-writing endeavor that would mean the world to me. And because I've been on submission with one project or another for the past almost a year. I HATE being on submission. It's dumb and demoralizing. But as I hope I've FINALLY learned, I know how to handle it.

Have I had difficult days? Sure. Have I prayed for an end? Of course. But more often than not, I've prayed for strength to persevere, and that's made all the difference.

Introducing Gummy Bear

She's feistier than she looks

I'd like you to meet Gummy Bear, the latest addition to our biological series, which just officially got bumped from a trilogy to a saga. She was born on Wednesday, April 18, at 1-2-3-4 p.m., weighing seven pounds, five ounces and measuring twenty inches long. The delivery went really well, and so far, my recovery has gone really well, too.

Having a newborn again has been a little surreal. Even though we knew what to expect, we weren't mentally or emotionally prepared deal with a screaming tyrant who patently refused to sleep. Thank goodness for caring friends and family who've brought us meals, held Gummy Bear while we napped, ferried our other kids to school, and even straightened up our kitchen. The Christlike service they've performed will not be soon forgotten.

One thing I'm trying to do is savor this time with Gummy Bear. Though I can't say for sure that we're well and truly done, I CAN say for sure that this one feels like the last, so it's very possible that these are the last times I'll change diapers, get puked on, and bounce a baby up and down--and up and down and up and down--in the middle of the night. Hopefully, this perspective has made me more compassionate, more patient, more at peace. It's so easy to get lost in the throes of parenthood when you're down there in the trenches, but caring for a tiny person who can't yet take care of herself is one of this life's greatest and most rewarding honors.

There, that's more like it

What I've Been Up To Lately

Alternate title: "Has It Really Been Three Months Since I Blogged?"

The first thing you need to know is that I've scheduled another round of "An Agent's Inbox" for the last week in March (the week of March 26). I don't know which genres The Agent will be looking for yet, but I strongly suspect he or she will want to see various shades of YA and MG fiction, so if you've got a finished manuscript within one of those categories, get those queries and first pages polished up!

March's round of "An Agent's Inbox" will be the last round before the fall, as I'm going to be having a baby in April. Did you see that coming? I sure didn't. It's been a years-long process to get this baby here, and maybe I'll feel inclined to share the story of those years someday. For now, suffice it to say that we're extremely excited and a little overwhelmed. In some ways, it feels like we're first-time parents again, so we hope those instincts don't take that long to come back...

In book-related news, I've been revising, revising, revising for what feels like the last eight years (but was probably just the last eight months). EARTH TO DAD has a great cover that I can't wait to share, and DON'T SOLVE THE PUZZLE will be getting a new title soon, so definitely stay tuned!

The Living Christ

Several months ago, I asked myself how I could make my Sabbath-day worship more meaningful, and one of the thoughts I had was that I could memorize "The Living Christ." This proclamation was issued on January 1, 2000, a few weeks before my sixteenth birthday, by fifteen men who stand as special witnesses of Jesus Christ. On last Sunday, exactly one week before Christmas, I memorized the last paragraph, so in keeping with this Christmas season, I thought I'd share it with you.

What follows is my recitation of "The Living Christ." I typed it out just before I wrote this introduction and only referred to my own memory. As such, I probably messed up some of the punctuation and/or capitalization, but I hope the words themselves are accurate. (I did go in and add the scripture references after the fact, though the quotation marks are mine.)

As we commemorate the birth of Jesus Christ two millennia ago, we offer our testimony of the reality of his matchless life and the infinite virtue of his great atoning sacrifice. None other has had so profound an influence upon all who have lived and will yet live upon the earth.

He was the Great Jehovah of the Old Testament, the Messiah of the New. Under the direction of his Father, he was the creator of the earth. “All things were made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made” (John 1:3). Though sinless, he was baptized to fulfill all righteousness. He “went about doing good” (Acts 10:38), yet was despised for it. His gospel was a message of peace and goodwill. He entreated all to follow his example. He walked the roads of Palestine, healing the sick, causing the blind to see, and raising the dead. He taught the truths of eternity, the reality of our premortal existence, the purpose of our life on earth, and the potential for the sons and daughters of God in the life to come.

He instituted the sacrament as a reminder of his great atoning sacrifice. He was arrested and condemned on spurious charges, convicted to satisfy a mob, and sentenced to die on Calvary’s cross. He gave his life to atone for the sins of all mankind. His was a great vicarious gift in behalf of all who would ever live upon the earth.

We solemnly testify that his life, which was central to all human history, neither began in Bethlehem nor concluded on Calvary. He was the Firstborn of the Father, the Only Begotten Son in the flesh, the Redeemer of the world.

He rose from the grave to become “the first fruits of them that slept” (1 Corinthians 15:20). As Risen Lord, he visited among those he had loved in life. He also ministered among his “other sheep” (John 10:16) in ancient America. In the modern world, he and his Father appeared to the boy Joseph Smith, ushering in the long-promised “dispensation of the fullness of times” (Ephesians 1:10).

Of the Living Christ, the Prophet Joseph wrote: “His eyes were as a flame of fire, the hair of his head was white like the pure snow, his countenance shone above the brightness of the sun, and his voice was as the sound of the rushing of great waters, even the voice of Jehovah, saying:

“I am the First and the Last. I am he who liveth; I am he who was slain. I am your advocate with the Father” (D&C 110:3-4).

Of him, the Prophet also wrote: “And now, after the many testimonies which have been given of him, this is the testimony last of all, which we give of him: that he lives!

“For we saw him, even on the right hand of God, and we heard the voice bearing record that he is the Only Begotten of the Father;

“That by him, and through him, and of him, the worlds are and were created, and the inhabitants thereof are begotten sons and daughters unto God” (D&C 76:22-24).

We declare in words of solemnity that his priesthood and his church have been restored upon the earth--“built upon the foundation of apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief cornerstone” (Ephesians 2:20).

We testify that he will someday return to earth. “And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together” (Isaiah 40:5). He will reign as king of kings and rule as lord of lords, and every knee shall bend and every tongue shall speak in worship before him. Each of us will stand to be judged of him according to our works and the desires of our hearts.

We bear testimony, as his duly ordained apostles--that Jesus is the Living Christ, the immortal Son of God. He is the great King Immanuel, who stands today at the right hand of his Father. He is the light, the life, and the hope of the world. His way is the path that leads to happiness in this life and eternal life in the world to come. God be thanked for the matchless gift of his divine Son.

In memorizing these powerful words, I hope that I can claim, at least in some small way, this beautiful testimony as my own.

*If you have any questions or comments, feel free to leave them below. Conversely, if your question or comment is of a more personal nature, you're always more than welcome to e-mail me at kvandolzer(at)gmail(dot)com.

The Road I Didn't Want to Take

About six months ago, the husband got a call at work. His employer was pleased with the lessons he'd been writing on the side for their curriculum department. They wanted him to come and write full-time out of their central office, so they wanted to know if we'd be willing to move back to Utah.

Honey Bear works as a religious educator for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which runs a coordinated network of seminaries and institutes for teenagers and young adults around the country and the world. When he was hired out of college, the Church assigned him to teach seminary in Mesquite, Nevada, which is where we've lived for the last ten years.

I loved Mesquite. I thought I was a city girl--or at least a suburban girl--until I moved to Mesquite, at which point I realized I would be more than happy to live with my husband and kids in a remote cabin in the woods (with electricity, indoor plumbing, and an Internet connection, of course). I loved the small-town feel, the laid-back lifestyle, and even the heat.

In other words, I didn't want to move.

It didn't seem prudent to move, either. I mean, we'd bought our house in 2006. At the height--or depths--of the recession, our thousand-square-foot house was worth about a third of what we'd paid for it. The market had started to come up again, so it was now worth about two-thirds of what we'd paid for it, and thanks to careful planning (not to mention my book deals), we'd managed to pay down that other third. For the first time since we'd bought it, we were (almost) in the black.

After several intense days of pondering and praying, we decided to move forward (though, admittedly, Honey Bear was more gung-ho than I was). We'd always intended to move back to Utah someday, and who knew when this chance would come around again? Plus, the change of pace really excited Honey Bear. As much as he loved the classroom and his students in Mesquite, he was eager to write full-time. (Ha!) So we started de-junking in anticipation of an advanced appraisal. For a week or two, I converted all my writing time into cleaning, de-cluttering, and reorganizing the whole house. When the appraiser came, I knew I'd done everything I could. I thought I was at peace.

Then we got the appraisal back, and it was almost ten thousand dollars less than what we still owed on the house.

I'd mentally prepared myself for a slightly lower number, but not ten-thousand-dollars lower. And despite my efforts to move forward, all my doubts and reservations bubbled back up to the surface. This wasn't going to work out. We couldn't afford to move. Maybe I just didn't WANT to move. At one point, we were on the phone with an assistant administrator--there are, like, five or six guys who oversee the Church's seminaries and institutes in every corner of the world, and we were actually speaking to one of them--and I just broke down. I pressed my fist into my mouth so he wouldn't be able to hear me sobbing, but when he asked me a question, Honey Bear had to admit I wasn't capable of answering. Fantastic.

For days, I asked myself why I couldn't just have faith. While the emotional side of my brain struggled, the rational side of my brain acknowledged that this was a great opportunity and probably the right thing to do. But I was terrified of losing control of my finances, of getting in over our heads, of having to borrow money from our parents (even though they'd already offered). I had this tidy, safe idea of what I thought my life should look like, and I wanted everything to fit neatly inside it.

And yet we forged ahead. I went through the motions of working with the realtor to put our house on the market, and somehow, our spring break, which we'd already planned to spend in Utah, devolved into a de facto house-hunting trip. The mother-in-law had already scouted the best properties, and when Honey Bear and I walked into her favorite house, we instantly fell in love. After reviewing our finances and praying again, we decided to make an offer--and promptly lost the house in an unexpected bidding war.

The rest of that week was like a bad episode of House Hunters. After having such a similar reaction to the dream home, Honey Bear and I were never on the same page again. Before we'd even heard back on the dream home, he'd been cooling toward the house that was supposed to be our consolation prize, and though we saw several other houses he wanted to make an offer on, I never felt as strongly about any of them.

Then, late Friday night--we were planning to leave on Saturday morning--I happened to be going through the listings I'd gone through a thousand times when I noticed that a house we'd initially had on our list was back on the market. We immediately called our realtor and asked if she could get us in before we left, but our realtor did us one better--since the sellers were still out (and since their realtor happened to live in the same neighborhood), we could see the house that night. We went and took a look, came home and said another prayer, and made an offer on the house, which the sellers immediately accepted.

Huh.

As we drove home the next day, I almost couldn't believe how everything had come together. It made me wonder if maybe this was going to work out after all.

But we still had to sell our house.

Actually, our house had received an offer in the week that we were gone (and only one day after going on the market). But it was even lower than our appraisal, and when we countered the offer, the prospective buyer never responded. Then we got offer number two, which was higher than the appraisal but still less than what we owed. Still, it seemed stupid to refuse it, so we resigned ourselves to somehow making up the difference between the sale price and our mortgage.

But when our buyer found out that Honey Bear worked for the Church and that they'd be facilitating the sale process, this prospective buyer backed out, too. Less than a week later, we received an identical offer, which also ended up falling through because this prospective buyer also wasn't interested in working with the Church. But before that offer fell through, we heard from a third buyer, who knew about the second buyer and wanted to make a competing offer. Long paragraphs short: we ended up selling our house for a thousand bucks over our asking price, which was already a few thousand bucks over what we owed.

Lots of people would probably chalk this up to good luck or coincidence, but I believe God was doing more with my life than I could do with it on my own. It's hard to let go, but I believe He loves and cares for us as a father loves and cares for his children. And because fathers are anxious to see their children succeed, He will help us steer our ships if we're willing to trust Him. In other words, when we let Him in, He won't ever let us down.

When You Don't Look Like Your Dead People

My maternal grandparents, Jose Junius Ramos and Elsie Marie Sorenson, are two of my heroes. They met in 1950 at Fort Douglas in Salt Lake City, Utah, where he was stationed as a special agent with the Counter Intelligence Corps and she worked as a secretary. They eloped a year later (to Nevada, no less--woo!).

In many ways, they were polar opposites. He was the oldest of nine children; she was an only child. He was raised in a staunch Catholic home; she was brought up in an inactive Mormon one. He was born in the Philippines and traveled around the world during the war; she was born in Utah and, as far as I know, never left it until after they were married. But they had a strong marriage and spent many happy years together until she died in 1980.

I know they must have faced more than a little prejudice, but I, for one, am grateful for their courage and sacrifice. Their example has taught me so many things--in fact, I owe one of the subplots in THE SOUND OF LIFE AND EVERYTHING to their story--and I've always been proud of the racial and cultural heritage I inherited from both of them.

As I kid, I loved filling in the bubbles for the demographic section on standardized tests. They let you fill in as many as you wanted, so I'd happily mark "White," "Asian," and "Pacific Islander." My adoptive grandfather was Filipino (and my birth father was part Filipino and part Hawaiian), so I didn't think twice about calling myself all three.

But as I got older, I gradually stopped marking "Asian" and "Pacific Islander." It wasn't that I was ashamed--that couldn't have been further from the truth. It was that I didn't feel like I could claim those pieces of myself because I didn't LOOK Asian or Pacific Islander. Sure, I had brown hair and brown eyes, and my skin tone was somewhere between white and olive, but many of my classmates could have said the same thing. Though I was technically Asian and Pacific Islander, I didn't feel Asian and Pacific Islander enough.

The truth is, I still don't. I was filling out an author questionnaire for Putnam the other day, and like those old standardized tests, it asked if I was of African American, Hispanic, or Asian heritage. At first, I just answered "No." But as I was reading back over my answers, I changed it to "Sort of. My biological father was part Filipino, and my adoptive mother's father was full Filipino." Then I realized how ridiculous that sounded and changed my "Sort of" to "Yes."

If there's one thing I've learned from my grandparents, it's to be true to yourself.

The Worst

It probably won't surprise you that I was a high-strung student. School was something I was very good at, and I took it VERY seriously.

That said, my grades weren't perfect. The first term of my freshman year, the last assignment in biology was to turn in our binders. We were supposed to organize our papers, create dividers and a table of contents, and, last but not least, "decorate." I had no problem with the organizing--I'd been doing that all term--and though I thought it was silly, I added swirls and designs to fulfill the last requirement.

When I got my grading sheet back, I was shocked to discover that this binder was worth two hundred points--and that I'd only gotten, like, a hundred and fifty. (A quarter of our grade had been allotted to the decorations.) My grade dropped five percentage points on the last day of the term. I went from a solid A to a barely-there A-minus.

I talked to my biology teacher, but he refused to budge (though he never required us to decorate our binders again). It was the first term of my freshman year, and my GPA was already ruined.

For fourteen-year-old Krista, it was kind of devastating, but there was an unexpected side effect: while my friends spent the next four years living in mortal fear of A-minuses, I couldn't have cared less. (Okay, maybe I still cared a little.) The worst had already happened; I'd never have to get my first A-minus again.

By now, you're probably wondering why I'm telling you this story. Well, THE SOUND OF LIFE AND EVERYTHING got its first industry review, and it was straight-up abysmal. (I'm not going to link to it, but I'm sure Google can find it without too much trouble.) It really stung for a few hours, but then I realized I could stop holding my breath. The worst has already happened; I'll never have to get my first bad review again.

That's one milestone I'm glad to get out of the way.

Why We Need Diverse Books

I grew up in a mixed-race home, though I've never thought about it that way until just now. My dad puts the Anglo back in Anglo-Saxon, and I'm not far behind (though I do have enough Filipino and Hawaiian blood in me to work up a nice tan). My mom is half Filipino, but even that's understating it, since her dad was actually Filipino, Chinese, and Spanish. My sister is half Guatemalan, so between the four of us, we represent four of the six populated continents.

I was a teenager before it occurred to me that my sister didn't look like I did (or my mom, for that matter). We grew up in a very white community a few miles north of Salt Lake City, but for some reason, she never stood out. She was just Heather, whirlwind toddler, pint-sized playmate, and occasional stealer of my stuff.

That said, I think my experience was unusual. Most kids do notice race. The schools in our town are forty-five percent white, forty-five percent Hispanic, and ten percent everything else, and I-gots noticed the texture of his African-American classmate's hair on the second day of kindergarten. Luckily, he asked about it, which gave us an opportunity to explain that, even though this boy's hair was different, it had nothing to do with whether he'd make a good friend.

White parents might think it's enough to stick their kids in multicultural settings and expect them to be colorblind, but I don't think anyone is truly colorblind. We're different, we notice, and that's okay. The trick is to talk about the differences so they don't seem so different after all. That's the great thing about diverse books--they allow us to get outside ourselves and see the world for what it really is: a beautiful ocean of diversity, beautiful in many ways precisely because it is diverse.

Some Great Thing

I have crazy eyes. I don't know the name of my condition, but suffice it to say that I got glasses when I was three and contacts when I was thirteen, but I haven't worn corrective lenses since the summer after I turned fourteen. My vision had improved--which is to say that my brain had learned how to discard all the input it got from my bad eye--and though my mom didn't believe me, the ophthalmologist confirmed it.

But there was a catch: according to the ophthalmologist, my vision would go bad again, probably when I got pregnant. Except it hasn't happened. Three kids and sixteen years later, I'm still waiting for my vision to deteriorate. But even though it's hanging in there, it isn't what it used to be. My eyes are always tired, even right after I wake up, and there are some days when the only thing that brings relief is putting on a mask and taking a rest on the couch. My vision is as clear as it's been in the past, but my eyes feel like they're working ten times harder to stay focused. They're exhausted. I'm exhausted. We all wish they'd just fail so I can wear contacts again.

Lately, though, I've wondered if something more is going on. I have a tendency to jump to the worst-case scenario--I think most writers do; that's one of the things that make us writers--so I've convinced myself I'm going blind. And a really weird thing happened: I convinced myself I'd be okay. No, I convinced myself I'd thrive.

Now, it isn't that I think being blind would be easy. The truth is, being blind must be incredibly hard. Like, so hard I can't imagine it. So hard I can't appreciate how much easier it is to be a person who sees. But there's something about running into a giant obstacle that brings out the best in people. When the going gets tough, most people really do get going (and I think--I hope--I'd do the same).

But then a small voice whispered, "If you'd be okay with going BLIND, why can't you be okay with this? Aren't tired eyes way better than eyes that don't see at all?"

It's been almost a year since Steve and Clyde sold, give or take, and what I've learned along the way, from my experience and others', is that little disappointments will always be part of this journey. Editors switch jobs. Books get reassigned. Covers get dumped. Release dates get pushed back. I'll admit that I've let these things get to me more than I probably should have, especially since they're NOTHING compared to the cancellation of a contract or the closing of an imprint.

One of my favorite Bible stories is the story of Naaman. He's some kind of hotshot in the Syrian army, but his wife's handmaiden is a young Israelite girl. When Naaman contracts leprosy, this handmaiden tells her mistress that there's a prophet in Israel who has the power to heal her husband. Naaman pulls a caravan together and marches down to Elisha's house, intent on finding a cure. But when they get there, Elisha doesn't even bother to come out and say hello. He sends his servant boy instead, and what the servant boy tells him is so simple it's preposterous: wash in the Jordan River seven times, and his leprosy will go away.

Naaman is incensed. He's a Syrian hotshot, for Pete's sake, and yet Elisha can't be bothered to deliver these orders himself? Also, the Jordan River is a trickle. There are way better rivers back in Syria. He came all this way for THIS?

But his counselor is more reasonable. He points out that if the prophet had told him to do some great thing--hike to the top of Mount Caramba, retrieve a feather from a phoenix, and use it to fly home--he would have done it in a heartbeat. So why shouldn't he do this very small and simple thing?

I don't know why some of us have to hike to the top of Mount Caramba while others are told to wash in a river seven times. But if we're willing to climb a mountain, we should probably be willing to take a dip in that gross river. It's rarely as bad as it seems.

What I Think of the Latest Attempt to Ban John Green's Books

You've probably heard about the latest attempt to ban John Green's books, but if you haven't, here's a quick recap: A teacher at Strasburg High School in central Colorado wants to teach an elective on young adult literature. The parents in Strasburg have taken issue with several of the books on the proposed list, so they've brought the matter before the school board, which plans to address it at a board meeting next month.

Curious about that proposed list? Here it is:

FEED by M.T. Anderson
THINNER THAN THOU by Kit Reed
DELIRIUM by Lauren Oliver
UGLIES by Scott Westerfield
TAKEN by Erin Bowman
THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE DOG IN THE NIGHT TIME by Mark Haddon
THE FAULT IN OUR STARS by John Green

FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON by Daniel Keyes
WILL GRAYSON, WILL GRAYSON by John Green and David Levithan
GO ASK ALICE by Anonymous
13 LITTLE BLUE ENVELOPES by Maureen Johnson
PAPER TOWNS by John Green
IF I STAY by Gayle Forman
BEFORE I FALL by Lauren Oliver
THIRTEEN REASONS WHY by Jay Asher
LOOKING FOR ALASKA by John Green
MISS PEREGRINE'S HOME FOR PECULIAR CHILDREN by Ransom Riggs
CLOCKWORK ANGEL by Cassandra Clare
THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE by C.S. Lewis

Other than the fact that this teacher wants to read pretty much everything that John Green's ever written, it's a pretty diverse list:) Of these nineteen books, I've read all or part of thirteen. Of those thirteen, I stopped reading four because I wasn't comfortable with the amount of profanity or the sexual content. (I've also put down books that I thought were too violent or gruesome, but for whatever reason, that doesn't happen as often.)

Now, several of the books I finished probably had the same amount of profanity or sexual content as the ones I didn't. Sometimes, I'm more sensitive, and sometimes, I'm just weak (which is to say that I'm too invested in the story or characters to put the book down, though I feel like I should). I really enjoy YA fiction, and I think I'll enjoy it for many years to come, but there are a number of books that I simply won't read because I find them too profane, too sexually explicit, or too violent.

In other words, while I applaud this teacher for wanting to teach current teen fiction, I also understand where the parents are coming from. But why are we always so concerned about the teachers and parents? What about the students themselves?

As a junior in high school, I was assigned to read John Steinbeck's THE GRAPES OF WRATH. I only made it a few chapters in before I gave up. I thought it was dull as dishwater, granted, but the way the Joads talked really grated on me. I was a sheltered teenager, yes, but I preferred it that way. I knew the world could be ugly and was often cruel, but I didn't see the need to willingly expose myself to its ugliness and cruelty. Even if a book uses that ugliness as an example of how NOT to be, there's something about bombarding the reader with it that seems contradictory to me.

I stopped reading the book and participating in class discussions (if we even had any, that is). My English teacher that year was less, uh, stringent than most, so she only ever gave us one quiz on the book. It remains to this day the only quiz, test, or assignment I've ever failed.

I like to think that if the stakes had been higher--if my term grade had been on the line, say--I still would have had the moral courage to put the book down. But I guess I wonder if I SHOULD have had to put my grade on the line if it had come to that. Should we make students pick between their religion and/or ethics and failing a class? In the case of Strasburg High School, is it enough to say, "Well, you don't have to take it, so if you're concerned about one of the books on the list, just don't sign up"?

On the one hand, I think there comes a point when you have to trust your kids to make the right decision, but on the other, I don't think kids should be penalized for choosing not to read something. What I'd love to see in a YA literature course of this nature is a two-pronged curriculum in which every book is studied in tandem with another and the students get to pick which one they want to read (or they could even read both). Then you could pair a gritty, true-to-life book with another that addresses the same issues in a less provocative way. I'm sure it would lead to some rousing discussions about the impact of profanity and sexual content in a book and what it contributes (or doesn't).

And I'm sure kids would come down on both sides of the fence.

Another Small Piece of a Love Story

When I blogged last summer about the last day I had with Honey Bear before he left on his mission, several readers mentioned that they wanted to hear the rest of the story. It's a LONG story, one that I could easily turn into a novel or two, but in honor of Valentine's Day, here's another tiny piece.

As I mentioned in the comments of that post, Honey Bear and I had virtually no direct contact for the two years he was gone. We did write letters back and forth (actual, handwritten letters, since they didn't let missionaries e-mail back then), but we didn't set eyes on each other or even talk on the phone. (Full disclosure: We did see each other once when he came home for hernia surgery, but that's another post.) I was down at BYU for the second half of his mission, but the summer he came home, I was back up at my parents' house, which is just a few miles from his.

He'd told me which day he'd be flying home, so I knew when to start worrying about when he was going to call. (If you haven't already guessed, I'm a champion worrier.) I didn't expect a call that day, since I knew his family would be anxious to catch up, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping for a call the day after that day. But then that day came and went, as did the day after that. I told myself it was nothing, but a part of me didn't believe it.

That summer was a dry one, and I distinctly remember that the mountain was on fire. At night, it looked like lava was dripping down the mountain like frosting on a cake. One night, Mom and I decided to take a drive up Highway 89 to get a better look. Now, Honey Bear's house was just a few miles up this highway, but I tried not to think about that.

Mom and I oohed and aahed at the fire, but really, I think we were both keeping an eye out for the turnoff to Honey Bear's house. When we reached Crestwood, Mom deliberately slowed down. She looked at me, I looked at her, and by unspoken agreement, we made the turn. His house was tucked back in the corner of his neighborhood, so we had to make several more turns--first onto Manchester, then onto Oxford--to make it to his house. When we finally reached Sherwood (whoever designed this neighborhood clearly had a thing for English place names), Mom eased around the corner, both hands gripping the steering wheel.

His house was at the far end of the street, in the sac part of the cul-de-sac. We only made it a few houses before I grabbed the armrest. "No, I changed my mind. I don't want to, I don't want to!"

We must have been on the same wavelength, because Mom whipped around and sped away before I even finished saying it.

The next day, I called him.

On Comparison and Confidence

Now that I have a little time for blogging (read: now that I finished my latest revision), I've been thinking about what I might say, and the thing my brain keeps circling back around to is comparison. YA Misfit Maggie Hall blogged on a similar theme not long ago, and I want to add my voice to hers.

The truth is, I've blogged about comparison before. If you click on that link, you might notice that I wrote that post in the first month of this blog's life. You'd think I would have figured at least a few things out in the last four and a half years, and the truth is, I did. There was a time when I was querying when it honestly didn't bother me if other writers got agents or book deals or fill-in-the-blank. I was confident in my own writing, so I knew that, sooner or later (probably later), things would work out for me, too. I just had to stay the course.

But then I signed with Kate (which was FANTASTIC) and went on submission (which was less fantastic). As the days turned into weeks and those weeks turned into months, my confidence dried up. The depression I'd struggled with as a teenager came back in full force, gobbling up the inner calm I'd worked so hard to achieve, and suddenly, I felt like I was right back where I'd started, jealous of anyone's success and secretly satisfied with anyone's failure.

In making this admission, I realize I'm opening myself up to criticism. Even if you're willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, you're probably thinking, "Gosh, Krista, you've sold a manuscript--no, two--for heaven's sake. You should buck up and be grateful!" And I should. Some days, I even think I am. But I'd be lying if I said I haven't felt jealous lately, and at least in my opinion, the only thing worse than feeling jealous is lying about not feeling jealous.

It's occurred to me as I've written this that, at least for me, the reason I feel jealous is because I've lost the confidence I used to have. Now, I don't mean the confidence that looks down its nose at other people and puts itself on a pedestal; I mean the confidence that comes from knowing you've done your best and being satisfied with that. THAT'S the kind of confidence that allowed me to reach out to other writers with genuine warmth and well wishes, and that's the kind of confidence I want to find again.

The great thing about this quiet confidence is that you can acquire it at any step along this path. As I already mentioned, I felt the most quietly confident before I had a book deal or even an agent. I was going through rejections like most people go through toilet paper, but it didn't even faze me. I knew my time would come, and I was content to wait it out.

I haven't managed to lay hands on that quiet confidence again, but I know where to look for it. For me, it usually springs from God, who, when I'm quiet and listening, never fails to reassure me of the infinite worth I have in His eyes. You might also find your quiet confidence in God or in the friends and family who love and support you no matter how many rejections you rack up or manuscripts you set aside. They believe in us.

Now, we just have to figure out how to believe in ourselves.

The Other Side of the Freeway

We drive the stretch of I-15 between Mesquite and Kaysville several times a year, so I'm pretty sure I have the whole thing memorized. I can tell you what it looks like at any given mile marker as well as how far you are from Cedar City, Fillmore, or Nephi. Honey Bear could probably drive it without his glasses in a snowstorm.

But what I've never really thought about is how different everything looks from the other side of the freeway. As we were coming down a hill on one of our more recent drives, I looked around and said, "Oh, my heck, this is THAT hill, the last one you drive over before you get to Beaver!" For whatever reason, that spot had made more of an impression on the southbound trip, but that didn't change the fact that it was THE SAME SPOT.

I've thought a lot about it since that day, and while I haven't come to any earth-shattering conclusions, I thought I'd share it with you. Sometimes, we don't even have to move to gain a fresh perspective; we just have to turn around.

In Defense of the Romantically Clueless MC

Come back tomorrow afternoon for an INTERACTIVE interview with Clelia Gore of Martin Literary Management. She'll be taking questions from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. EST!

One of the most consistent pieces of feedback I've gotten on Bonnie is that Karina's totally clueless when it comes to Matthew. It's obvious to readers that he's interested in her, but Karina doesn't pick up on any of his cues. It isn't until her friend finally comes out and says it that Karina realizes Matthew has a thing for her, and according to my critique partners, she should figure this out sooner. Since they did.

But novels, even realistic ones, aren't necessarily realistic. We carefully construct our stories for maximum impact, then sprinkle in a lot of clues and clever foreshadowing. We want our stories to make sense, so we press them into tidy molds and tie up our loose ends.

But real life is rarely so neat.

In high school, I had a friend named Ian. He asked me to Homecoming our junior year (though I ended up going with Honey Bear, but that's another blog post), and we ate lunch together every day our senior year. After we graduated, he asked me out a few times, including once right around Christmas. We were home from school--he was up at Utah State while I was down at BYU--and one afternoon, he called and asked if I wanted to check out this comedy troupe. I said, "Sounds fun! Who else will be there?" and he said, "Me," and I said, "Oh." After one of those long, awkward pauses, I rushed to assure him that I'd love to go, that it would be great to see him, that I was looking forward to it. And I was. The show was funny, and it was nice to catch up afterward. (Even though it was December, we chatted over Frosties for several hours in his car.)

I think that night was the first time it occurred to me that Ian could possibly like me. It was also the last time we ever talked. Honey Bear came home from his mission six months later, and we discovered we still liked each other. Then Ian left on his mission a few months after that, and we didn't keep in touch.

I'm still not sure why I didn't pick up on Ian's cues* sooner. He asked me out multiple times--in fact, he's the only boy other than Honey Bear who asked me out even once, which should have tipped me off--and he went out of his way to show up wherever I happened to be. In hindsight, it seems so obvious, but I didn't see it for the longest time.

So the next time you're tempted to smack a romantically clueless MC, give him or her a break. This whole love thing is tougher than it looks.

*Ian, if you ever stumble across this post, I do apologize for my inanity. And if I completely misrepresented your point-of-view, feel free to set the record straight:)

Depression Is Hard to Write About

Bonnie is about a lot of things--swimming, survivor's guilt, first love, forgiveness--but in my heart of hearts, she's always been about major depression. I started writing her almost a year and a half ago, so at first, my characterization was based on memories that were more than ten years old. But as I've experienced a few more low points over this last year, I've realized how much I got wrong. And how much I sensationalized.

The truth is, I'm the Mr. Rogers of depressed people. I've never attempted suicide (though I have contemplated it), I've never felt compelled to cut or inflict pain on myself, and my depression is brought on by relatively mild life events. Maybe I'm a wimp--actually, I strongly suspect it--and just can't handle the normal ups and downs that other people take in stride, but for better or for worse, this is how MY depression feels, and I accept that.

I think we writers have a penchant for puffery. We're always mining for conflict in our stories, so I guess it would make sense that we occasionally feel compelled to hunt for conflict in real life. For that reason, I sometimes feel guilty for claiming to be depressed, like I'm not depressed ENOUGH. Like my depression isn't real if I'm not a danger to myself or others AT THIS VERY MOMENT.

But as one of my critique partners oh-so-accurately put it, even moderate major depression can be deadly, and moderate major depression is what a lot of us seem to have. We know how to cover up our symptoms and put on a brave face. On our best days, we even seem normal and happy. But underneath it all is a steady stream of negativity that, if left unchecked, can come back to bite--or even kill--us.

Which I why I think this story is so important--and why I want to get it right. I'm not there yet, but as long as I don't give up, I think I can get there someday.

What is it they're always saying about art imitating life? :)

Oh, Look, Another Post About a Depressed Writer

I've started this post a dozen times and never finished it. I've rewritten, rearranged, added, and deleted. In fact, I've seriously considered just deleting the whole thing. I mean, there are only so many times you can read about a writer who's struggling, and I feel like those other posts have been far more insightful.

But for better or for worse, this IS my life. It's what I'm going through, and in that way, it's mine. Besides, I've never been very good at disguising how I feel, so consider this another in the long line of posts in which I wear my heart on my blog.

Being a mom is HARD. Like, write-ten-thousand-words-in-a-single-sitting hard. It seems like it should be doable, but the pace is so relentless. You're on every single minute of every single hour for the next eighteen-plus years, no sick days, no vacation. I suppose that should have occurred to me before I got pregnant, but the reality never sank in until I was knee-deep in kids.

Lately, I've been so jealous of writers who don't have these pint-sized distractions, who can pick up and move to Singapore to finish their revisions. Or write until three in the morning because they know no little hands will tug at their covers a few hours later. I've desperately wondered what it would be like to sit down and write whenever or wherever I wanted because no one was demanding anything of me.

The rational side of me knows that this is only the depression talking. (Have I mentioned I have depression? I haven't had a problem with it since high school, but in the last eight months or so, I've noticed some of the old thought patterns cropping up: the indifference, the negativity, the overall can't-do attitude. It's great.) The rational side of me also knows that EVERY SINGLE WRITER has to overcome one obstacle or another. But knowing and believing are two completely different things.

You'd think these sorts of feelings would have come up sooner. From a writing perspective, 2013 has been a very good year for me. But it's also been stressful (something I've learned about submitting is that it often takes weeks and sometimes months for the first hints of good news to blossom into book deals (if they blossom at all)), and I didn't expect that. Add to this three crazy kids who are just starting to have lives and interests of their own, and you've got one off-kilter Krista.

I want to say for the record that I don't regret being a mom or a writer. I chose to be both, and I stand by those decisions. You don't give up on something just because it gets hard. And it's not as hard as it could be. I'm still mostly functional, still capable of writing more days than I'm not. Hopefully, I'll be able to get a handle on this before I sink too much deeper.

For those of you waiting for the inspirational ah-ha moment these posts often include, I'm sorry to disappoint. I haven't figured anything out yet. But if I don't blog or tweet as often as I used to, I hope you'll understand. I'm trying to slow down, dig deep, get back to the basics. I've got a long climb ahead.

Road Trip Revue (Minus the Singing and Dancing)

We survived our road trip! It was a ton of driving, but it was also a ton of fun. Here are the highlights:

Day One: Utah and Colorado

We spent most of our first day on the westernmost end of the I-70 corridor. We passed some spectacular scenery in southern Utah, but since we're so used to it, we didn't think to take pictures:( Suffice it to say we saw huge sandstone towers and really cool canyons carved out of rock.

The landscape through Colorado was very different. For the most part, we stayed within sight of the Colorado River the whole time (which makes sense, since the river would have taken the path of least resistance through the mountains). The drive through White River National Forest was especially stunning. I took this shot several miles into the gorge. (The river itself is off to the right.) The freeway was split like this the whole way and cut through man-made tunnels several times. We've never driven on a cooler road.

The resort town of Vail was definitely the ritziest stop on our trip. We pulled off the freeway to get gas (not our best idea, as it turned out to be the most expensive gas for several hundred miles (if not the whole trip)), but at least it gave us a chance to snap this east-facing shot of one of the chalets. It looked even better up close.

Not far past Vail, we topped the Rockies and headed back down the far side. I took this panoramic just past the summit. (As you can see, we weren't really on top of the Rockies, but we were up as high as you can get on a major interstate.)

We stayed in Denver that night, where I got to eat dinner with Kate and breakfast with Tara the next morning. Unfortunately, none of us thought to take pictures, so you'll just have to take my word for it:)

Day Two: Kansas

Western Kansas was exactly as boring as I thought it would be. I didn't take pictures of any of the cornfields we passed, but I did take this picture of what is probably the only tree west of Wichita. I especially liked the clouds in the background. I've never seen as many low-lying clouds as I saw on this trip; they were often so low that I could watch us pass underneath them. They are, in my opinion, precisely what clouds should be:)

By the end of the day, we were in Kansas City, where we waited in line for fifteen minutes at Oklahoma Joe's. (From what I understand, this is actually A REALLY SHORT WAIT for the privilege of eating the best barbecue on the planet.) This is Honey Bear's ribs-and-pulled-pork dinner. I ordered the brisket, and it was DIVINE. I'm already planning my next trip to Kansas City!

Day Three: Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana

We spent the night in Kansas City, then toured a few historical sites the next morning. Back in the 1830s, many of the early members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints settled in and around present-day Kansas City. As clashes between Mormons and native Missourians grew more intense, the governor issued an extermination order, and mobs (as well as certain regiments of the Missouri militia) forced the Mormons to abandon their homes and belongings. In addition, Joseph Smith was arrested and incarcerated in Liberty Jail. The jail was torn down a long time ago, but based on old photos and journal entries, the Church has been able to reconstruct it on the original site. This is the front door. (You'll notice the walls were four feet thick to keep prisoners from escaping. Actually, the jail's construction was pretty innovative for the time: two feet of rock set with concrete, one foot of loose rock that would shift if someone tried to squeeze through, and one foot of solid timber.) Joseph Smith and five others spent roughly five months in the dungeon during the winter of 1838-39. The dungeon was bitterly cold and not tall enough for Joseph, who was just over six feet, to stand upright. Interestingly, the jail was later deemed unfit for human condition and turned into an ice house. They kept the ice in the dungeon, where it stayed frozen year-round.

Because we spent so much time in Kansas City, we didn't have time to stop in St. Louis. But I did get to drive over the mighty Mississippi (and the Missouri and the Kansas--so many huge rivers!), and we did pull off the freeway long enough for Honey Bear to take this picture of the St. Louis Arch. (The sign to Chicago totally made me think of Liesl. Too bad we couldn't have taken a detour!)

We also stopped at an Amish restaurant somewhere in Indiana, but when we quizzed the waitress, she admitted that neither she, the cooks, nor the owners were Amish. Apparently, one of the owners' parents had been Amish, but even though they still used the same recipes, it didn't feel quite the same:)

Days Four and Five: Kentucky

We arrived in Richmond late Saturday night (or early Sunday morning, depending on which time zone you're in) and spent a leisurely Sunday catching up on sleep and going to church. This is a picture of the house where we stayed. It was built sometime in the nineteenth century, making it the oldest residence I've ever slept in. (All of you Europeans can stop laughing now.)

We flew home Monday evening, but not before stopping at Churchill Downs, home of the Kentucky Derby. For some reason, I'd never bothered to find out where in Kentucky they held the Derby, so I was happy to learn it was only a ten-minute drive from the Louisville airport. I'm not a gambler, but I've always loved watching the three races in the Triple Crown (probably because my mom always watched them when I was a kid). Honey Bear took this shot of the grandstand on the walking tour of the grounds. We were standing in the secondary winner's circle just off the track, the one they use for every race BUT the Derby.

And that was our trip! I added five new states to my have-visited list (Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, and Kentucky), ate some pretty great food, and saw a lot of cool things. I've never really liked road trips, but that's because I've always been more focused on the destination. On this trip, it was all about the journey.