"Hope need not mean expectancy. It suggests here rather the music which can come from the remaining chord" ~ George Frederic Watts

A few summers ago I attended a Study Abroad in London. The first of many museum visits brought me to the Tate Britain where I came across this painting by George Frederic Watts. Of all the pieces I encountered during my stay in England, this one made the strongest impression on me. 

Hope, George Frederic Watts, 1886

For many, this painting may not seem like an appropriate interpretation of Hope. It seems rather melancholy, forlorn, and even Hope-less. Watts' critics said a more fitting title for the piece would be "Despair." But that's not what I see when I look at this painting...


The figure sits atop a globe, shrouded in fog - her clothes hanging in tatters, her body hunching forward as she rests against a lyre which has lost all but one string. Blindfolded, she raises her right hand and lightly strums the ruined instrument. It is an image of loss and sorrow, disappointment and discouragement, yet there she sits, playing and straining to hear the sweet music that gently issues forth.

In an article from the June 2009 Ensign, Larry Hiller quotes from Romans 5:3-5

“We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience;

“And patience, experience; and experience, hope:

“And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.”

When all seems lost, Hope plays on, patiently helping us bear our sorrows and hold fast to what limited strength we may possess. Hope fortifies and gives us sight when we cannot see or perfectly understand who we are or where we may be going. My greatest hope is for a Savior who rose from the Garden Tomb. A Savior who lives, loves, and will forgive. 


There are other things I may not know or even comprehend perfectly, but I have a hope that they are true and that one day I may gain a more unshakable understanding of them. Until then, I will strain to hear the gentle music that will both aid and encourage as I venture along my course. 

Walking with Two Sisters

By Larry Hiller

Faith walks before me,

Holding up her lamp

As I try not to stumble in the ink-dark hours before the dawn.

Her light illuminates

One step and then another.

Beside me, Hope, arm linked with mine, encourages and steadies.

Sometimes in the tedium,

Distracted by the pain,

My mind begins to wander, then my feet. I hesitate.

Unsure, I look to Hope.

Her hand takes mine.

The touch reminds me of another hand held out to me,

One pierced and scarred

Yet oh so tender

Lifting me and blessing me when I had fallen and despaired.

Remembering,

I move ahead

Buoyed up by Hope, who sees the end with perfect clarity.

Happy Easter.

NOT a Loser... Not entirely

I caught a glimpse of my future at the grocery store yesterday. I was out running errands and decided to stop by my parents' house. I was in the neighborhood so I thought I'd see what everyone was up to. When I mentioned to my mom that I needed to go to Smith's, she asked if I would pretty please pick up some cat food for our poor, starving kitties. It didn't seem fair to let the kitties suffer, so I agreed. I wandered the aisles of the grocery store, picking up a bottle of dandruff shampoo here (I have an itchy scalp... yucky, I know) and a few frozen dinners there. I made it to the pet supplies and loaded the biggest bag of Seafood Medley Meow Mix I could find. I continued to wander. Looking down at my cart, I realized how pathetic its contents were. Uh, a bag of cat food big enough to feed every stray cat in the neighborhood, some super strength Head and Shoulders for my nasty scalp (disgusting), and my sad little frozen dinners. Oh, and Liquid Plumber. My groceries screamed LOSER! 

Things were looking bleak indeed. Then while I was looking at some frozen veggies, a guy from my old ward came strolling down the aisle. I was halfway in the freezer at this point and glanced through the rapidly fogging freezer door to get another glimpse. Yup. It was him. So he passes my way again, only this time he stops and says I look familiar. Whaaaa? He asks if I'm in the ward, I confirm that I indeed used to be, and he offers his hand, apologizes for forgetting my name, and re-introduces himself, being just as friendly as he could be. THEN when I was leaving the store I passed his way again. He said "See ya, Lauren!" and that was that. Well! You could have knocked me over with a feather. I thought it was very nice of him to stop and figure out who I was and how he knew me. I didn't hear a swell of violins, see the heavens open, or have any romantic visions... nothing as delusional as that. But as I pushed my dinky little cart out to my car, I felt just a little less like a (cough cough) LOSER. 

I am convinced...

Most plus-sized clothing is hideous. I am convinced that those who design clothing for the full-er of figure folk are either making some sick joke at our expense OR they think by making these garish garments we will do whatever it takes to get out of them and into the next size 2 we get our hands on. Just because I sometimes  feel like I belong in a circus tent doesn't mean I want to wear one!


I'm chubby, not stupid.


As I peruse the clothing racks at various retailers I find I am usually drawn to some pretty cute stuff. I'll slide each hanger forward, making my way to the very back of the rack where I hope to find my size. Sadly, I usually come up a size or two short and move on to the next rack. Soon, my casual browsing turns into a frenzied hunt for something, ANYTHING that might fit. I'm no longer sliding hangers forward one by one, but practically dismantling entire displays as I go straight to the back and clumsily turn cardboard tags over in my hands. "Small"...Pfff! Yeah, right... "Medium"...Wishful thinking... "Large"... Getting closer... "Extra Large"... Maybe?? No? No, guess not... And pretty soon I'm out of sizes. And when you're out of sizes, there's only one place you can go... To the Women's Plus Department. Now, that's a Women's with a CAPITAL dub-ya. The circus side-show of apparel. The outlands of fashion. The dark corner of the sales-floor where those of slender frame and lofty fashion standards, straying too far from the safety of their size 2s,4s, and 6s, will usually turn up their noses as if repulsed by the prospect of a size 18.  It's like the walk of shame, entering that arena.

Over-dramatizations aside, the clothes are, for the most part, just plain ugly. Big, baggy blouses in the most obnoxious colors and patterns imaginable... Jackets and sweaters with rhinestones that look as if they'd been cornered by some rogue Bedazzler... Embroidered plaid, tie-dye T's, drawstring khaki, mixed animal prints made from mystery material, collared shirts with built-in camisoles, and... the list goes on and on.

I go into a store looking for this...

And, after exhausting all my options, usually end up looking at something like this...

The former may be the cutest, but what good is that to me if the darn thing does not fit? I know plenty of people who would buy it anyway and use it as motivation. You know what happens? They end up with a closet full of clothes that don't fit, no motivation, and nothing to wear. And so, I come up with nada.

Now, shopping online is a different story. There are plenty of retailers out there whose clothing is more forgiving in their size availability AND they don't look like something that might have covered a couch in the '70s.

Clothing like this...

So all is not completely lost, but shopping online can be tedious, expensive, and, at times, a gamble. 

Also, how come a certain size will fit me at one store and then when I go to try on the same size at another store it DOESN'T FIT??? Can't they have universal measurements for all stores? Please? Yeesh.

Anyhoo... We all know it's no secret that I would like to shrink a few sizes or more in order to overcome these limitations on my wardrobe. It would be nice to walk into a store and feel pretty confident that I'll walk out with something that isn't just a pair of shoes or an accessory. 

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times"

Last night I went to see "A Tale of Two Cities" at Hale Center Theater. Apparently it premiered on Broadway in 2008 (where was I?) and enjoyed a very short run there. HTC revived the show from relative obscurity and brought it to the West where it was given new talent (all local - and AMAZING) and a new audience. It was the first time the musical had been performed since it played in New York. Shamefully, I have never read the Victorian novel by Charles Dickens and was not familiar with its story. After seeing this musical, I can see this was a gross error on my part and have taken pains to correct it. Even as we speak.  Mr. Dickens' work is on hold at the library. The title of my blog, the opening lines of the book itself, were basically all I was going on when I entered the theater yesterday evening and took my seat. My sister had seen the show last week with a friend. She insisted we all had to see it and since this was the last week of its run at HTC, we wasted no time in purchasing tickets. It started kinda shaky for me - at least the first 15 minutes. They threw a lot of important plot points at you during this time and I had to be on my toes. I was going in cold, not knowing anything about the music or the story itself - a first for me. So not knowing what to expect, I settled in for whatever happened next. 

Here is a brief plot summary of the story a la Wikipedia:

"The novel depicts the plight of the French peasantry demoralized by the French aristocracy in the years leading up to the revolution, the corresponding brutality demonstrated by the revolutionaries toward the former aristocrats in the early years of the revolution, and many unflattering social parallels with life in London during the same time period. It follows the lives of several protagonists through these events. The most notable are Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton. Darnay is a French once-aristocrat who falls victim to the indiscriminate wrath of the revolution despite his virtuous nature, and Carton is a dissipated British barrister who endeavours to redeem his ill-spent life out of his unrequited love for Darnay's wife, Lucie Mannette."

Let it be known I was not in the highest of spirits upon my arrival at the theater. I had left work a little early while our office was in the midst of two HUGE mailings. I had cleared my early departure with everyone last week so they knew I would be leaving once 3:30 came round. Still, when the time came I tried not to look anyone directly in the eye, knowing full well without an extra pair of hands they would be left compiling, stuffing, sealing, and posting envelopes for these mailings late into the evening. With my hands covered in work-related paper-cuts (I've counted 7 so far) I left downtown Salt Lake City and fought traffic to get to the show. And when I say "fought traffic," I mean literally fought, though it was mostly one-sided. I was sitting in my car, yelling at every moron who got in my way - which was everyone, of course. Morale was low in my little Camry. I only had 5 minutes to get to the theater, but arrived just as they were getting ready to close the entrances. Thankfully. Or things may have gotten really ugly. 

So there I sat, trying to forget the previous ugliness of the day and enjoy the show that was singing and dancing before my eyes. Slowly but surely, I was pulled into the story. I had apprehensions, wondering if this would try to be some knock-off of "Les Miserables." But it wasn't - even amidst the French Revolutionaries and tragic heroes/heroines. Midway through the first act, I had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. My mom, who was not familiar with the story either, leaned over to me and asked through her own tears, "Do you think...?" and made a guess as to how the story would end. By the END of the first act, her hypothesis seemed inevitable. I told her, "If that's how it ends, I don't think I can stand it." At intermission I went to the candy counter to get some chocolate - I was in a right state at that point and needed a little sugar rush to carry me through the tragedy that was about to unfold in the second act. I asked the girl at the counter if she had seen the show. She said she'd seen it a few times and asked me if I was enjoying it. I told her I was, but that emotionally I was a little sapped. Then, like one of those wise bar-tenders or cafe-owners you always see in movies offering their sage advice from behind the counter, she pulled up a large stack of napkins and placed them on the countertop, saying, "Well, you're gonna need these." I took my chocolate and my napkins and went back to my seat.

I went through those napkins pretty quickly. I'm a real boob. But I was with a bunch of boobs, all of us hiccupping through our tears. The sniffles were not in short supply in that theater and glancing around at my fellow patrons I saw a lot of eyes wiped and noses blown. It was such a beautiful show. I didn't want to leave the theater. I wanted to watch it again. As we filed out, I looked around me and saw a group of girls perhaps a little younger than me. They were all of them busy texting, engrossed by whatever was happening on their cell phones and seemingly oblivious to whatever they had just witnessed onstage. I wanted to shake them and say, "Didn't you just see the same show we did?" Seriously, we were all a mess and these girls acted as though they were leaving a chess tournament for the amount of interest and emotion they exhibited. 

So thank you, Mr. Dickens, for such a lovely story. And thank you, Ms. Sanotriello, for giving this story life on the stage. Otherwise, I may never have known it. 

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known."

Don't Judge a Book by its Cover...Especially THIS One!

I'm not speaking metaphorically. So those of you who think this entry is in reference to how my physical attractiveness conflicts with the "beauty within," well... you would be mistaken. But read on...

I've noticed something rather disturbing during my latest visits to the library and book store. I was recently perusing the young adult fiction section at the Sweet Branch Library in the Avenues when I came across a book cover that was very reminiscent of Stephanie Meyer's Twilight saga. At first I thought, "Oh no, not another one" and I stepped forward to get a closer look. The book cover was in the iconic black, white, and red of Ms. Meyer's series - a red rose against a black background with white type in a "Twilight" font. However, upon closer inspection I realized the title did not read Breaking Dawn or New Moon or Winter Equinox or Solar Flare... No, this title read Wuthering Heights. ACK! What's more, there was a label that read "Edward and Bella's Favorite Book." And apparently this is not an isolated incident. I found Romeo & Juliet, Pride & Prejudice, AND (my personal favorite) Jane Eyre, all adorned with the same unfortunate book covers. 

Now, admittedly I was on the Twilight bandwagon when the books were still fairly new. I read the first book in 24 hours, I believe. The story did pull me in and I thought it was very inventive and interesting... Aaaaand I fell for Edward. Then when I read the 2nd and 3rd books (which I cannot really differentiate as far as plot and character development) I became disenchanted. Bella was still whining and pining, Edward was still moody and broody, and Jacob was always running some kind of fever. Oh, and don't forget the random cast of vampires that were always out for Bella's blood. Oh, Bella Swan. She is my very least favorite heroine written in the entire world of literature. Ever.  Shouldn't every irritating literary character (especially if they're the protagonist) possess some redeeming qualities? Or even a personality? Why are all these mythological man-beasts pursuing this Bella Swan? My only understanding of her character is (a) that her happiness is totally dependent on some boy and that she is (b) willing to give up her soul to *cough* progress her relationship with this boy, forsaking all else for an eternity of blood-sucking bliss. Yuck. And Jacob? He's just a hot (literally) and hunky distraction to fill the void whenever Edward's glittery and cold marble abs aren't there to keep Miss Bella company. 

Still, I really enjoyed the first book... As a story, there was wonderful potential. It was just that the books that followed were more of the same thing over and over again. I picked up the 4th book and skimmed the first few chapters, but beyond that, I did not devote any time to its pages. I figure I'll just see the movie since movie Bella bugs me much less than book Bella.

So... 

Why market these Classics as an extension of Twilight? On one hand it's rather a clever way to get these teens (and, let's be honest, their mothers) to read actual literature - romantic, complex, profound, and beautifully written literature. On the other hand, it's kinda a sad commentary on the state of literacy when Twilight is the standard we must follow, tricking readers into picking up a book because of its cover and slyly offering reassurance that the book they hold in their hand is "Bella and Edward's favorite." Instead of "As Seen on TV!" it's "As Read in Twilight!" So read on, Twi-Hards, and impart of the worlds of Shakespeare, the Bronte Sisters, and Jane Austen, but please note, they were writing (and doing it well) long before these tacky book covers ever adorned their timeless stories.

*     *     *

Oh, let's face it. I'm just bitter that the owner of THIS beautiful face wasn't cast as Edward Cullen in the movies...

Sigh...