Only at BYU . . .

"Sealed for time and all eternity."

Or at least until rivalry week is over.

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The Messenger of the Covenant

Recently I’ve been studying (at President Nelson’s invitation) about God’s covenants to Israel as well as each passage in the scriptures about Christ. As Christmas approached, I found a beautiful intersection of my two courses of study: Christ is the “messenger of the covenant” (Mal. 3:1).  For some reason this phrase struck me deeply. Christ is the embodiment and fulfillment of God’s promises to His covenant people. This poem tries to capture some of the wonder and gratitude I feel for the tiny Babe in Bethlehem who came to fulfill God’s promises to all mankind.   Millenia of promises From God to His children Lay swaddled in a manger That night in Bethlehem.   The incarnate fulfillment Of ancient covenants Was cradled by his mother Under heaven’s broad expanse.   God had promised love, And hope and resurrection; Forgiveness, joy, and family; Healing and protection:   Those promises all came to pass Through Christ our Heavenly...
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There’s something about an anniversary—about being located in the same cosmic space in relation to the sun that you were when something significant happened—that makes you nostalgic; that makes you think about the past. And if you’re like me, it makes you feel like waxing verbose and throwing scattered memories and thoughts onto a computer screen. It’s been a year now since my dad died. An entire revolution around the sun, complete with Christmas, birthdays, and all the other celebrations and mundane days that noisily squeeze themselves into our calendar. Each of the days of the year has now happened once without my dad here on the earth to welcome it; without him able to receive my texts or laugh at my jokes or tell me he’s proud of me or hold my little boys. And I wish I could say, at this end of my first year without Dad, that I have some profound insight to share with the world; some neat little package of how-to-succeed-at-grief tied up with a bow and ready for dissemination...
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Broken Bones

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For the first 28 years of my life, I managed to keep intact every single bone of my body. Not a solitary chip, crack, or fracture marred my perfectly ossified skeleton. That flawless skeletal model at the front of the anatomy classroom—that was me. Whenever I needed to pull out a fun fact about myself for a party game—or win the “most boring person in the room” contest—I always had the “never broken a bone” card to pull. Two truths and a lie. Got it. Fun (or boring) fact about yourself. Done. As a child, when my elementary school friends occasionally came to school sporting their neon-colored casts, I signed them, subconsciously grateful that my own bones required no external splinting to keep their ordained shape. I listened to the cringe-worthy stories of falls, accidents, and crashes shared by my friends, shuddering to the depths of my own unmarred bones. The accounts were always riveting, either because the person engaged in some intense risky behavior, or because the accident wa...
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