The man speaking in sacrament was aged, wise, and had the air of a general authority when he spoke. My attention had been split between him and Emily as she and I giggled and joked. This was until my eyes met with the speaker’s. Without so much of a blink he commanded me in a stern but loving voice, “Replace fear and doubt with faith, now.” 

My mission--so many fears, so many doubts... how can I replace those with faith? 

I was sitting on the right edge of the couch. Dad was on the love seat perpendicular to me. We somehow got into a discussion about what I was going to do with my life after high school--which schools was I going to apply to and what would I study? At the time I really had no idea what I wanted to pursue. I had so many deserving interests and ample talent to do whatever it was I chose. 

I told him that I was leaning towards culinary school but that it didn’t really matter because I didn’t have a lot of choice. The only school I could afford was BYU-Idaho. Then I said something I sort of regret. I said, “Dad, how do other people afford to go to school? Either they go in debt or their parents pay for it.” Whenever I think of this moment, it breaks my heart. There was a gentle sadness in his countenance and his eyes looked at me with yearning and sorrow. My dad, who works so hard, who loves me so much, who has devoted his life to his family, fell short. At least he seemed to feel that way, and I will always be sorry for how I brought that feeling upon him. But I will also always be grateful for the chance to see how much my father truly cares for me and how much he wishes for me to succeed and accomplish my dreams. 

At this moment I am sitting in the middle of the library. Just sitting and feeling every one around me. Every mumble of hushed words being spoken, every letter typed, every tapped pen, every crinkled wrapper reverberates inside my empty soul and fills it with a rich concoction of the mundane. Reflexively I toss my head to the side as a timid blond gets up out of her chair. Our eyes connected and lingered for an instant. In that time my brain collected what it could. She was fair and wispy. Her eyes were hard and deflective at first but then softened as if to apologize. I smiled a slight smile assuring her that all was forgiven. 

Why did all the greats in history have journals? Galileo, Da Vinci, Einstein... Because they understood the power of thoughts. A single thought in the mind of a pioneer can change everything, for everyone throughout the indefinite future of mankind. But a thought is useless if it is not recorded, communicated, and disseminated. It can come as a revelation one moment and then the next pass as if it never were there.

What if we all wrote down all our thoughts? Would we be surprised to see the results? Of not only our own but of others? Would it not help us more clearly see the patterns of our lives and our inner fixations. Are our thoughts resonant of our desires or are they merely the surface--the busy work of our emotions? 

Kara had come over on a Sunday evening to play games with the family. After games, she and dad struck up a conversation about business, which predictably lasted much longer than my social stamina permits. Endurance was key, and it paid off in the end. Of course, I was grateful that she was willing to talk with him for so long because it truly appeared as though he thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated it, but I was glad to finally have her alone. You see, I had shot my own self-esteem in the foot, like I most often do, and Kara has a  way of healing my confidence like only best friends can. I find it fascinating how one so broken is so good at fixing. I think it has to do with love. We cuddled up on the couch together. She held me as I cried. Told me I was beautiful. Told me I was perfect. Told me she loved me. I remember how the words of genuine affection soothed my soul, like each bone, vain, muscle and capillary was wrapped in its own little snuggy.