Wendy and I were typical college girls in the 80s. We advised each other on relationships, clothes, and our appearance; I always admired Wendy’s comfort with her body. She was trim, but she didn’t exercise, nor was she a perfectionist. If the outfit was cute, then she looked cute in it.

I envied the comfort Wendy had in her own skin. On a hot day, Wendy wore shorts because it was hot. She wasn't overly concerned if her legs were white or untoned. In a bikini, she’d walk confidently and shamelessly to the water, looking over her shoulder at me, “Aren’t you coming?” I needed a minute to adjust my swimsuit, then I’d walk gingerly to the water trying to minimize body jiggle. I was a prisoner. Wendy was free.

One time Wendy and I were shopping for new bathing suits. She liked a powder blue and white two-piece. The colors and cut of the suit were pretty, but the fabric was unconventional and thick.

Wendy stepped out of the dressing room and looked at me for approval.

“That one looks like it’s made of flannel,” I said.

“Flannel? No, it doesn’t,” she said.

Wendy bought the suit. It looked nice on her slender, imperfect figure; but then, the moment of truth.

We went to a friend’s apartment pool. We laid in the sun for a bit, then Wendy announced she needed to cool off in the water. She trotted to the pool stairs with ease and conviction – or maybe it was childlike unawareness.

She entered the pool, swam around a bit, then exited, hair slicked back, a smile on her face. Only her swimming suit was hanging heavily from her frame. She may as well have worn a suit made of Turkish towels.

Wendy looked at me, knowing what I was thinking. I shrugged.

A few weeks later we headed to a popular creek for swimming and a picnic.

“Can I borrow one of your bathing suits?” Wendy asked.

Wendy [a.k.a. Em] and me in Sedona, Arizona, circa 1986.

I don’t think she ever wore the flannel suit again.

As time moved forward, Wendy lost the comfort with her body. She struggled with her weight for a decade or two but enjoyed purchasing ‘cute’ outfits regardless of her increasing size or what the scale said.

Although life separated us proximity-wise, Wendy and I remained close. We managed to visit a few times a year, stealing long conversations over lunch, coffee, or wine.

“I’m fat,” she’d say.

“You’re beautiful,” I’d say.

But I sympathized with her struggle. I told her if I lived closer, I’d be her exercise partner. Although she hated to exercise. Other than a brief roller-blading phase in the late 80s and early 90s, I never knew Wendy to move fast or sweat.

Wendy died on April 18, 2011. Ovarian cancer killed her. She would have been 52-years-old this year.

Before she died, I had the privilege of spending time with her during some brief visits. I traveled from Utah to Arizona when I could to see her in the last few months of her life.

Wendy hated the way she looked when she was dying. She said some cancer patients lost weight, and their faces looked naturally beautiful – ethereal almost. Wendy was grey, carried a little extra weight, and was self-conscious of her skin in general. She was really only comfortable with her immediate family seeing her at the end.

On one of my visits, I went with Wendy and her mother to a chemo treatment. When we returned to Wendy’s house, her mom and I helped her to bed. We noticed her feet needed a pedicure. Wendy’s mother said she’d make a mental note to bring her pedicure tools so we could work on Wendy’s feet.

“Your heels need some attention,” we teased her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. 

The last time I saw Wendy before she died, it had been several weeks since her chemo appointment. Wendy’s mother and I were standing together, looking at Wendy as she rested. Her feet were kicked out from under the sheet. I noticed they looked soft and smooth. I asked her mother if she’d given Wendy a pedicure. “No,” she said, “her feet buffed and softened on their own. I think because they haven’t been used much.”

The reality of calluses self-healing due to a person’s bed-ridden state was sharp. Wendy had lovely feet, I thought. They were small, with nicely shaped toes and toenails, and graceful arches. Her feet reminded me of Cinderella’s in the scene where the prince slides the glass slipper on her foot. Wendy had Cinderella arches.

I recently spent a few days in Miami Beach, Florida. One morning I walked past Muscle Beach South Beach. Two very fit men, wearing matching black, thong Speedos, baseball hats flipped backward, and playful expressions were practicing gymnastic-like moves. One man would hold a hand-stand on a bar two feet off the ground, toes pointed, tanned body glistening in the humid morning air, while his companion watched and encouraged. “Looking good! You’ve got it! Perfect!” And they were kind of perfect, in an Artemision Bronze kind of way.

In contrast, while lying on the beach, I saw several people in string bikinis and thongs, who clearly didn’t devote as much time and energy to sculpting their bodies. Wendy would love this, I thought. She would have enjoyed Muscle Beach, and she would have enjoyed swimming in the ocean on a hot day with all the people. Young, old, thin, plump, pale, dark, smooth, wrinkled, but all comfortable wearing teeny, tiny swimming suits and freely entering and exiting the water.

I don’t wear a thong, but I do wear a two-piece bathing suit. The first day on the beach, I felt self-conscious of my aging, white body. Before leaving my lounge chair for the water, I triple-checked for exposed side-boob and picked my suit bottom out of my butt crack, pulling and snapping the elastic around my entire rear-end.

The more I thought of Wendy, our evolution as women, the pretty men on Muscle Beach, and the imperfect, near-naked people on South Beach, my confidence grew.

I walked to the water’s edge, sometimes running like Dudley Moore on hot sand in “10,” with my flat feet, man toes proudly painted navy blue, unconcerned with jiggle, side-boob, or ass-wedgie. The water was refreshing. I floated, swam, looked at the sky and talked to Wendy, informing her of my latest revelations and telling her how much I missed her.

If there’s a heaven, I know Wendy’s there. And I hope she occasionally rocks her flannel bikini and a pair of glass slippers.

The last photo taken of Wendy and me together, October 2009, 18 months before she died.

Fifty isn't terrible, but it's definitely different. Yes, many people are living longer, remaining physically and intellectually active for decades beyond their 50th jubilee. We're a good-looking bunch...for our age. And examples of folks pursuing new careers and accomplishing amazing things only because of the seasoning that comes with years lived truly inspires me. But, it feels like a bittersweet graduation of sorts. Congratulations! You made it through life's undergraduate school! Graduate programs are highly individualized and length of study is unknown. Good luck! Commencement date for advanced life degrees varies. And, it's curtains.

In addition to being 50, I'm now the mother of a college student. My oldest son, Parke, graduated from high school and is studying something...somewhere. He's as prepared and ready as a young person can be in this fast-paced, competitive, complicated time. He left excited and happy!

My college transition experience was the antithesis of Parke's.

August 1984 -- Austin, Texas
I watched the rental car back away. My parents in the front seat, Dad driving, looking over his shoulder to avoid hitting something -- and probably avoid looking at me -- Mom sitting beside him, and my 15-year-old brother peering between them from the backseat. My family said goodbye to me, returned their rental car, and boarded a plane for Phoenix, Arizona. They moved for my father's job the same weekend I transitioned to life as a college student.

I stood in an alley adjacent to the women's co-op that was my new home as my family left, and cried. It was what I thought I wanted. I was three months beyond my 18th birthday. The boy I loved, and had planned to attend college with, had bizarrely been denied admittance to the large state school. He instead, was going to an even better private university in Dallas -- three hours away. I didn't have a car or much spending money, and neither did he. I was completely alone. My family, now states away, and a steady boyfriend, essentially gone.

Dad, me, and Mom -- Wakonda Women's Co-op, University of Texas, August 1984

Me -- Co-op Courtyard, University of Texas, August 1984College wasn't awesome for me. Confused, mentorless, heartsick, and homesick, I flopped around for a few years unsure of what to do or who I was. I only lasted in Texas for a year before transferring to a smaller Arizona school. In hindsight, the giant state school was a terrible fit for a young, naive, immature, directionless girl. There's no one to blame and there's much more to my story; my experiences have made me who I am.

But, I want something different...better...for my kids. My husband feels the same and comes from a similar mentorless, freewheeling past. Some guidance, attention, and support within the education system would have been nice. However, as the saying goes...if things had been too much different, my husband and I wouldn't have met, fallen in love, and created our family. None of us can imagine not knowing our children.

August 2016 -- Malibu, California
So...my son. We attended a comprehensive new student/parent orientation program for a few days at his school before saying goodbye. Then we cried like babies. Parke's attending a school of his choosing (funded by a sizeable scholarship -- we're not fans of paying big money for undergraduate education), and we've done our best to ensure he's had, and has, the things we felt were lacking in our stories. Classic projection. But, projected with so much love, sincerity, and desire for our son to know he is supported. No matter what.

 Me, Parke, and Chris -- Pepperdine University, August 2016

Back to my 50th
June 5, 2016 was a beautiful day. My son had graduated three days prior -- an equally beautiful day -- and my family was happy and healthy. A 40-mile bike ride with my husband and father made me feel grateful for my health. A barbecue dinner in the backyard with my parents, husband, and sons left me feeling loved and celebrated. The simplest things are truly the grandest, and most memorable. For me.

Chris, me, and Dad -- Alpine, Utah, June 2016

I know my son's college commencement date -- May 2020. My advanced life degree commencement date? TBD. But, I intend to graduate with honors.

I spent my birthday mostly solo. My teenage sons had long-laid plans with friends to spend the day and evening at a local amusement park, celebrating the end of the school year. My husband had to work; although he offered to do anything I wanted. I wanted to get my nails done, which I did at 7:30 AM. I wanted to see a movie that I knew neither my husband nor 9-year-old son would likely enjoy. And, I wanted to shop for and choose a new mountain bike. The time alone truly appealed to me.

The movie was Iris. With freshly painted red toenails and Tiffany Blue fingernails I made my way to downtown Salt Lake City, battling traffic generated by the Utah Pride Festival and a public funeral service at Temple Square for an LDS apostle who died earlier in the week. The contrasting attire and general energy contained within cars and spilling onto sidewalks amused me. Midday, at the Broadway Centre Theatre with seven other viewers -- all older than me by at least 20 years -- I was touched and inspired by Iris Apfel and her husband Carl. It was the perfect documentary to watch on a day that began with me baking my birthday cake (after returning from my early morning nail appointment), thinking about aging, and contemplating new boobs. All things I'm perfectly comfortable with.

I'm far from a fashionista like Iris, although I enjoy creating and playing with aesthetics and style. But Iris Apfel is more than her fashion icon label; she's a woman who's lived life fully, is intelligent, curious, and well-matched with her adoring husband, Carl. She knows who she is and is unapologetic, yet not nasty or unkind. I just love her. And Carl. Maybe you will, too.

One week into being 49, I've handled the mundane -- scheduled windows and carpets to be cleaned, received bids on house repairs, grocery shopped and laundered for the family -- and fielded a TB scare (yes, as in tuberculosis -- I don't have it). I've also laughed with friends, run on trails, worked on my novel, read entertaining fiction, and looked out very clean windows. All with brightly colored nails, and a renewed tenacity for life, dreams, and fluidity...

...while a sheepdog who loves me patiently waits for my attention.

John and my nails. 

Back pain begat nerve pain, nerve pain begat nerve damage, and cautionary words like, "We can't promise that you'll run again," made the decision clear. After three months of physical therapy, and less than 24 hours after consulting a neurosurgeon who convinced me that permanent paralysis could be the result of my high stakes gamble to heal myself naturally, I surrendered.

On July 16, I had discectomies on L4-L5 and L5-S1. The surgery was only an hour, everything went great and I was home the next day to begin the three-month recovery.

*****

The summer of 1980 rivals that of 2014, again, from a wide-angle. I began that summer with my 14th birthday and a surprise case of chickenpox. I babysat some infected kids believing I'd had a mild case as a young child and was immune -- so my mother told me. That misfortune begat another. My mother had a shoebox full of drugs that she'd acquired from a close physician friend prior to a move from Indiana to Arizona. Drugs intended to save us time and money when the solution was obvious and simple -- a little antibiotic, a little hydrocortisone, a little something to help a cough, constipation, diarrhea, etc. We were set. Smart and well intended, but not a doctor, Mom put steroid cream on my chickenpox. The blisters grew to nickel- and dime-sized causing excruciating pain, a long healing process, and a long summer. Of course she felt badly. So did I.

*****

My back surgery the summer of 2014 resulted in cancelled plans and trips for my family. I was in pain and struggling to walk before surgery; after, there was healing discomfort, and the need to rest and stabilize my spine.

Post-surgery, it was difficult to read or write because I couldn't sit for long -- just 20 minutes at a time for the first few weeks -- lying flat on my back or side when not sitting or walking (frequent walks were prescribed by my surgeon). As I felt better I wanted to do things around the house, but was limited. I couldn't bend or twist. Countertops -- all waist-high items -- became very clean. My husband, Chris, said, "There's a clean groove around our house," as I shuffled around polishing and wiping anything within my reach. Dusty baseboards and sheepdog art (i.e., dog slobber and snot) on the windows and hardwood floors taunted me.

Chris and our sons rotated shifts, refilling my water, holding my hand on short walks, ensuring John, our sheepdog, didn't inadvertently bump or knock me over. Friends brought us meals, and called regularly to see how we were managing.

I had to ask for and receive help. All kinds of help. I had to be gentle on myself. Eventually, I could go for walks on my own. After a few weeks I walked 30-60 minutes several times a day. I enjoyed walking slowly after years of running, taking in every ant, flower, tree, passing car, cloud formation, and the summery sun. I laid down when I got home, resting on my side, smelling of sunscreen and perspiration. It was too much work to shower some days, so I often remained ripe. We had simple suppers, boring afternoons, long days. I couldn't drive for a few weeks, Chris worked from home, the boys worked it out. We talked, sometimes played a game, or watched television. Sometimes we were just silent in our rooms.

*****

The summer gifts?

2014: It's like the hand of God pushed me into my bed. Enough. Slow down. Stop. Nurture you. Doing so nurtures all around you. How you treat yourself is how you treat others. Look. See. Enjoy. These beautiful boys and loving husband. Your kind, true friends. The love, the good, creativity, and happiness that is, has been, and always will be right here.

We spent the summer together. Refortifying. Living simply. Healing more than one person's physical body. I saw in Technicolor my family's tenderness, kindness, compassion, and love for me. It's always there, but easy to overlook when life is busy. A life where feeling under-valued, unappreciated, and taken for granted erodes joy. And isn't what is true.

I allowed myself to do nothing. Sometimes I listened to pod casts or meditated or thought. But mostly, I let go. And everything and everyone managed just fine.

My legs got hairy because I couldn't bend to shave them. (Yes, my husband offered...No.) It was oddly freeing for a typically vain 48-year-old woman to have bangs on her knees.

1980: There were gifts that summer, too. My younger brother and I strengthened our already tight bond because he spent much time staying beside me, even sleeping on the floor in my room to help with the constant applications of calamine lotion. His compassion for me at such a young age was memorable.

I read, did puzzles, and journaled (which will remain private because I cathartically disparaged the kids who gave me chickenpox).

Unable to shave my legs that summer because of the forever healing blisters, I sported hairy, scabby legs when I returned to school in September. High school. I was afraid I'd scar -- something my dad said would look tough and cool, but my mom cautioned me about. Again, this was oddly freeing for a typically vain 14-year-old girl.

*****

I took last winter off from skiing and my back is feeling much better. I've been hiking and even trotting on trails again -- carefully. I might run a trail race in August. We'll see.

I'm goofily grateful for the summers of 2014 and 1980. Ultimately, I took care of myself and received from others. I simply had no choice. But it's important for all of us to do precisely that always. Take care of ourselves...and each other.

AND, if my sons ever get chickenpox, I know to never put cortisone -- steroid anything -- on their blisters. Ever.

Birdie, the high-energy, intelligent female required a lot of physical and mental exercise. She also dominated our 8-year-old son, Redmond. Her eyes locked on him when he entered a room, and she frequently lunged and grabbed his arm with her mouth when he walked near her, sometimes with a growl (not a vicious bite, but the potential for disaster was there, especially as she grew larger). Redmond was an Inspector Clouseau to Birdie's Cato Fong, minus the manservant part.

A trainer tried to help Redmond and Birdie redefine their relationship. Things improved, but we still needed to remain hyper-vigilant when Birdie -- who now outweighed Redmond -- was in the same space as our youngest boy. Again, we don't believe she was an aggressive dog, but she was the boss of Redmond, and he was afraid of her.

John, Birdie's larger, low-energy, not-so-bright brother, was easier to manage. It appeared he was trained because he often sat when we said, "Sit." I maintain it was, and remains, a coincidence. He likes to sit more than he likes to move.

The two dogs together weren't twice the work; they were ten times the work especially as they grew. Focused on each other and desiring to play ALL THE TIME, our home often resembled a post-party fraternity house. Our hardwood floors look like we gave the kids butter knifes and said, "Draw!"

We decided that if we were going to whittle our pack by one, Birdie was the one to go. Big dumb John would be easy to care for and he didn't try to dominate anyone.

A local business that we had used for training and dog daycare agreed to assist us. They're not a shelter, but have occasionally helped families like us. Birdie went to a familiar facility with caring people she had known for months. She was comfortable, played with other dogs, and received more training. The owner and head trainer personally interviewed potential adopters. It took a month, but Birdie was finally rehomed with a young couple. I'm told they have no other pets, no children, are active, and most importantly, that they fell instantly in love with Birdie.

We miss our girl, but are shifting the angsty energy to love and attention for John. He seems happy and unfazed.

Happy and UnfazedAs I struggled through the process, crying frequently, feeling guilty, losing sleep, etc., an experienced dog trainer advised me to stop applying human psychology to dogs. She said that, yes, some dogs are more sensitive and grieve a rehoming, but that Birdie adapted seamlessly (not exactly sure how people know for certain what an animal is experiencing, but I digress). Birdie's strong, independent, bouncy personality, combined with her healthy young age, comforted me. She would be fine.

So, we sadly say farewell to Birdie, knowing we did the right thing for her and our family, and thankful that she landed in the arms of a couple who feel like they hit the lottery. And as I type this, I look at John -- 100 pounds of stupid and handsome -- lying on the floor beside me, and I say, "Get off my foot, John."

Just John

*****

My book, to Mormons, with LOVE, continues to enable me to participate in many discussions. Topic specifics vary but conversation always centers on religious and cultural differences. People enjoy sharing their experiences and stories; and questioning me further about mine.

Often, I’m asked, “What do you believe?” Great.

When I was very young I asked my mother—a quasi-hippie—essentially the same question. “Do you believe in God?” Her answer was, “It’s not important what I believe. What’s important is what you believe.”

She wasn’t shirking her parental duties, or avoiding a question. She empowered me to think, feel, and pray for myself. My mother made it clear she respected whatever path I chose. There were also guiding words like, “All I know is that deep within myself, something speaks to me and helps me feel if a choice is good, or not good. Listen to that. Pay attention.”

Holy Spirit? Higher Self? Does it matter?

I’m a runner, although recently more of a hiker due to a neck injury. My running and hiking friends attend church on Sunday, so I embrace the time alone. My summer Sunday mornings are like the opening scene from Oklahoma. People walk to church, smile brightly and wave to me as I run by. The sky is blue, perfume and aftershave fill the air, and scriptures are reverently carried. “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” plays in my head. I think it plays in everyone else’s head, too.

Winter is different. The skies are often grey; families are in cars, sometimes taking a corner on two wheels because they’re running late. (We’ve learned to avoid driving lessons for our student driver beginning five minutes before church starts through about 45 minutes after.) However, I still always get a smile and a wave, even if it’s a little rushed.

Recently, friends and I have been hiking near our home. Sundays, when I head up solo, I climb, talk to God, and give thanks. I’m thankful for a body that allows me to move, the deer that seem unbothered by my presence, and the overwhelming sense of peace that I feel. When I arrive at the top of the hill, I sometimes make small snow angels with my feet. I like to think there are angels and spirits all around me on that hill. Some familiar, most not, but I welcome them all.

Snow angels with my feet

I always pause to take in the view. I look at my town, knowing that in the churches I see (there are many), my friends, and people I don’t know, are worshipping. And praying. For me, for you, for themselves. And I graciously receive.

View of my town from the hilltopSo, what do I believe? Not that it should matter, but I know most who ask that of others are purely curious. My path is fluid, and I’m comfortable with that. But…

…I believe in God. And, I believe that God believes in ALL of us.

Peace and blessings to you and yours.

We hit the promised sweet spot. Boys wanted a large breed; my stipulation was a non-shedder. Our research led us to the decision to add an Old English Sheepdog to our family. I insisted on a female because leg-lifters and humpers are worse (in my mind) than shedders...or reptiles.

A beautiful female was available mid to late summer, exactly when we were. A puppy seeker in California was interested in her, too (so the breeder told me). We needed to make a decision fast. One other pup was still available in the litter -- a male -- described as "chill" and "laid-back." I asked if something was wrong with him. Was he skittish? The breeder said no.

I'm not sure how the holes of the Swiss cheese lined up, but somehow Chris and I decided we were open to purchasing both puppies. "Let's ask the boys," I said to Chris. "They're pragmatic. Maybe two puppies won't appeal to them."

I'm an idiot.

*****

Earlier in the summer, Duke (13YO) transitioned to an insulin pump to manage his diabetes. With the support and encouragement of his older brother, Parke (15YO) -- who uses the same pump, Duke quickly adapted. He loves it. No more shots (or very rarely), and much easier to enjoy food spontaneously.

Both boys had diabetes-related routine blood work done, as well. We were informed while on vacation in Arizona in early July, that a celiac disease screening came back elevated for Duke. Biopsies of his stomach and small intestine were completed within a few days of our return to Utah. Duke was asleep for the procedure. They went through his mouth to get the tissues, so other than a sore throat and anesthesia recovery, he felt fine the next day. Results took close to two weeks.

*****

A couple of days after receiving our precious puppies, we received news that our precious Duke was diagnosed with celiac disease. We cried, but not for long. The tears were less about saying farewell to conventional pizza, pancakes, and cupcakes, but more about the fact that there's one more thing Duke must manage...for life. But again, we wiped our eyes and blew our noses, found a couple of outstanding gluten-free bakeries, and celebrated the fact that there are many delicious, nutritious foods that aren't glutinous. And, the fact that there are worse diagnoses.

So, here we are. Puppies, John and Birdie (nickname for Elizabeth), are more joy and work than we imagined. Their energy, size, and innocent personalities have captured the focus and hearts of our entire family. The five of us feel victorious and fulfilled after a day caring for the brother and sister sheepdogs. We're united...and distracted.

Life is so much more than pizza and cupcakes.

While searching for and eliminating hidden gluten, I left the refrigerator door open as I read labels. Birdie helped. We felt happy.

Birdie

In the meantime, here's a segment that ran April 28, 2013 on Mormon Times. The first two minutes aired last November, but the remaining interview is new.

She was thin—usually 17 pounds, down to 9—and rested a lot, but she didn’t seem to be suffering. Mary looked forward to her meals and loved affection. I believe simply watching our family move about the house from her bed gave her comfort. She appeared content.

It could have been any day…maybe even weeks or another month.

We were at the San Diego Zoo, four days into our vacation. An elephant was about to receive a pedicure. One zookeeper explained the procedure while another worker prepared the area before retrieving the animal. The worker placed a stool, an elephant-sized nail file, and a bucket of cucumber treats in the pedicure area. The bucket had the name of the elephant written on the side. Her name was Mary.

Thirty minutes later, the vet called my cell phone. Our Mary had had a grand mal seizure. Medication temporarily helped, but she continued to mildly seize for several hours. “The beginning of the end,” the vet had said. “I think Mary’s telling us it’s her time.”

We made the decision to euthanize Mary later that afternoon.

Sea World, Legoland, the beach, and being away from home—all buffered our grief. Family vacations are important, pets die; this is life.

Re-entry was rough. We drove home from the airport recapping highlights, feeling thankful for a fun 10 days, but anxious to sleep in our own beds. At the same time we were heavy-hearted about the reality of seeing an empty dog bed.

Mary was cremated. A few days after we returned, I picked up her remains along with the pink sweater she was wearing the day we left. I placed her in the front seat of the car next to me, cried hard, told her I loved her, and that I needed to swing by the liquor store before we went home. She waited patiently.

We know that it was “time”, and that there was no chance of recovery. But, of course we miss Mary and feel her loss in powerful and unpredictable waves. Pet grief is unique.

Chris, the boys, and I spread her ashes in the backyard after a short, awkward family memorial. The day was windy. It didn’t seem to matter which direction we sprinkled, the wind always shifted, blowing the light grey powder back towards the person sprinkling. Mary clung to us. She even got in Redmond’s (7) eye. Damn dog.

Rest in peace, sweet Mary.

February 10, 2003 – March 5, 2013

Here is a piece that I wrote for a local online newspaper -- The American Fork Citizen.

My Immune System Survived a Direct Hit

And a piece for LDS Living.

Baptisms and Bar Mitzvahs

I appeared on a local television show, Studio 5, in a segment titled, Breaking the Mormon Code. The piece is 12 minutes long, and the live discussion begins after three minutes (although I encourage you to watch the pre-recorded sound bites if this is a topic that interests you).

Breaking the Mormon Code

Thank you for continuing to check in. :)